Halo: Finishing the Fight
by Red Mage 04
Summary: The Ark wasn’t the end. Stranded on an alien world where the rules of reality no longer apply, the Master Chief and his allies will face new challenges. When darkness rises, they must show that sometimes, a few brave souls can make all the difference.
1. Prologue Arrival

Ehh, well, hello everyone. Kind of nervous here. First time submitting a Halo story (and dear God, I hope I'm putting this up in the right area). This is a story idea that come during a conversation with friends, and an overdose on diet root beer and Immediate Music.

To warn you here and now, there are going to be some noticeable AU elements present in this story on both sides. Certain things will not have happened, while other events will be altered slightly to make them go in the way that I think probably would have been more suiting for the characters (and forgive me if that sounds incredible arrogant).

At any rate, I want to thank you all for at least reading this far, and I hope that you enjoy the story.

As a note to Lawyers: I hereby swear upon my immortal soul and cognitive thought processing capacity that I have no ownership over the characters involved here save those of my own imagination. The Master Chief and his franchise are copyright of Bungie, while the rest belong to Wizards of the Coast.

And as a final warning to those who may be reading this. The story is rated T for now, but future combat scenes and other graphic imagery may require the rating to get bumped up a notch.

That said, here's the prologue. Hope you find it to your liking.

* * *

**Halo: Finishing the Fight**

* * *

Prologue- Arrival

* * *

"Well, that could have gone better."

No one thought to answer the owner of the voice, a glowing, blue white figure coming up out of a data port. The three figures that were in front of her were too busy trying to assess the situation that they now found themselves in. The Dawn was battered, its engines down, and they were adrift… well, wherever the hell they were now. Still, they weren't dead, that had to count for something.

"Cortana, report," Commander Miranda Keyes said from up in the bridge.

"Structural integrity stable, as is the reactor. The engines were damaged by the Halo firing and our little adventure afterwards. Weapon systems are out of sync, but reparable with what we have onboard. The only problem is that I think the portal didn't take us home… or, for that matter, anywhere near it."

"What do you mean?"

Cortana turned to face the source of the iron hard voice. A man that she had come to care for and respect in the months that they had worked together: Spartan-117. John. "What I mean, Chief, is that I don't recognize any, and I mean, any, of the star patterns that the sensors are picking up." She paused and flicked a strand of hair out of her eyes. "I don't know where we are."

The cyborg said nothing, but Cortana detected a massive spike in neural activity. He was thinking.

The Chief's mind raced over the possible implications of this. If the portal had malfunctioned, not sent the Dawn back to Earth like it was supposed to, what might have happened? Perhaps the firing of the Halo ring had caused it to malfunction. If that was the case, where were they? Near another Forerunner shield-world? Perhaps they could land there and find a way to get a signal to the UNSC.

At the same time, another part of his mind was attempting to calculate possible exit vectors for their ship, and how long it would take for a ship to reach them. If it was any significant distance, then finding a safe landing area was a priority.

The cyborg continued to let his thoughts race along.

"Spartan, what are your thoughts on the situation?"

John turned to face the only non human member of the group. Orna Fullsamee, Arbiter of the Sangehili, looked at him, the four mandibles that formed his mouth clicking together at seemingly random intervals. It was a sign of agitation among the Orna's kind. The Elite's four fingered hands were clenching open and shut, perhaps trying to rid himself of the massive overload of adrenaline that came with their escape from Halo.

Halo… Guilty Spark. John remembered his last few moments with the A.I.

* * *

"You are Forerunner, the inheritor of all that they left behind," the floating machine's single eye glowed a vibrant blue. He seemed almost sad. "Remember this well, Reclaimers. An entire galaxy had to be wiped clean of life because of the Flood. There is too much at stake for the knowledge of your forefathers… of… never mind. You cannot allow history to repeat itself again!"

"Set this thing off and let's get out of here!" Johnson growled. "We can catch up on Humanity's newfound history later."

"No." Guilty Spark shook himself back and forth in the air, suddenly looking down at the ground. "Halo is incomplete. A few more days and it would be ready to fire without complications, but you are right… we scarcely have a few more minutes." He looked back up at the three soldiers. "There is too great a risk for me to leave. The Installation will shake itself apart under its own power… and the damage to the Ark would be catastrophic. If I stay behind I can monitor and contain the situations as they arise. Besides…" he trailed off for a moment. "I cannot bear the thought of losing yet another installation under my control."

John nodded, and moved forward. Within moments, Cortana had linked into Halo's control systems, and inserted the activation index. The station began to glow and pulse.

"One last thing, Reclaimer," Spark said. He moved over as the Chief put Cortana back into the slot at the base of his neck. "I want you to take the data caches I have stored inside of myself. A slot suddenly opened on the side of the A.I. "Study it, there is much information on it that will aid your rebuilding."

The Spartan nodded and took it. Then the room started to rumble and a beam of light, blindingly bright, shot up from the depths of the installation. The firing sequence was beginning. They couldn't stay here. They had to leave.

"Godspeed, Tinkerbell…" Sergeant Johnson snapped to a salute, before he dashed out of the room. Chief and Orna fast on his heels.

* * *

The Spartan didn't know what to make of the little A.I. He was an enigma. Half the time, on the first Halo, he'd been trying to kill him and Cortana to get the activation index back. Other times he had thrown every Sentinel drone he could in-between them and the ravenous Flood. He felt an ache inside of himself, like when he had lost a brother or a sister on the battlefield.

He shook his head. There would be time to remember the sacrifices of the fallen later. For now, they had to make sure they didn't join their ranks.

"Cortana, is there anywhere nearby where we could land?" Keyes asked.

"Scans of the initial area within the next few billion klicks indicate that we might be in luck," she gave a faint smile. "There's an Earth-type planet just a little ways away. I read an oxygen/nitrogen-type atmosphere, continents, oceans, the works. I don't want to try and calc the odds that that thing conveniently dumped us in front of a habitable planet, but right now, I'm not complaining."

"How long will it take to get there?"

"No more than a few hours, Commander. I've already dispatched an emergency signal, so the fleet will know where we are when… if, they ever get it." She put her hand to her forehead. "Giving the engines ten percent power. That's all I can risk."

"What about our equipment," Johnson said. The man was tapping the front of his ODST helmet with a great deal of agitation.

"Well, the armories survived intact, so weapons and ammo won't be a problem, We've also got a Longsword, two Pelican dropships, a pair of Scorpion tanks, an Avenger, some warthogs, and a good dozen Mongooses onboard."

"Thank God for small miracles," he said. "If you guys don't mind, I'm going to have a smoke."

John looked up at Orna, who crossed his arms and stared back at him. "It is amazing how calm your sergeant can be under duress." Then he clacked his lower mandibles. "I never truly had the chance to apologize, Spartan. For what I did… for what our Covenant did to your kind. Blinded by our delusions…"

"Save your apologies," The Chief started to walk off. "Words are meaningless. Prove your sincerity with your actions. When the time comes, get your people to help rebuild what you tore apart."

The Arbiter said nothing as the cyborg walked away. Then he nodded his head.

Unknown to any of them, however, was just how quickly their world, their reality, was about to get thrown for a loop.

* * *

Bruenor Battlehammer exhaled slowly. Around him, the night was crisp, and bitterly cold. The sky was clear, though, and the stars twinkled in all their glory. A fresh carpet of snow lay upon the Dale and Ten Towns, a testimate of the blizzard that had just passed through.

Much had changed in the past few months. Akar Kessel's bungled attempt to take them over, the Barbarians suddenly siding up with them against that common threat, and the discovery of his ancient home of Mithril Hall. With all that had happened, this period of calm was driving the Dwarf king out of his mind with boredom.

He leaned back against the entrance to the tunnel. Drizzt was away somewhere, probably heading to Silvery Moon again. The Lady Alustriel had just allowed access to the city for him, and the Drow had been all too eager to set off, to see the wonders of a city where his heritage would not haunt him. Wulfgar was back helping his people to survive. The Barbarians had still not recovered from the disastrous attack on Ten Towns six years ago, and the battle with Kessel's goblins and Orcs had only further weakened their ranks. The coming winter would not be an easy one for them to survive.

"Out here again, Father?"

Bruenor turned and saw his daughter, Cattie-brie, standing at the entrance. The human girl wore her usual smile beneath the furs that she was wrapped up in.

"Bored out of my skull. I'm almost wishing those goblins would come back for another round," His gruff accent distorted his words.

Cattie planted a kiss on top of her father's head, causing his skin to suddenly match her hair. The Dwarf sputtered and mumbled, glaring up at her. The glare melted after a second girl.

"I'm starting to act like one of those bloody Humans…" He got a good natured punch for his comment. "Girl, you will be the end of my sanity yet."

"Oh, Father, you'll never change."

"You say that like it's a bad thing…" he trailed off and glanced up at her again. Then he sighed and returned to watching the stars. The Dwarf king did a double take a second later, though.

Was it just him, or was one of the stars getting brighter?

He squinted and stared out at it. Then he looked over to his daughter.

"I see it too," she nodded fervently.

It wasn't just getting brighter, the Dwarf noticed, it was moving. It cut across the night sky like it was a shooting star, only a hundred times larger. The other stars winked out and night became day as it blasted across his field of view. He knew it had to be miles off, but even from where he was standing, he felt the air temperature rise. His furs and armor suddenly felt uncomfortable and he started to sweat. The snow near his feet seemed to loosen and melt slightly.

Then it was gone. He watched it as best he could. It went just over the horizon, past the Spine mountains, and then there was a tremendous flash.

A shockwave seemed to hit then, a blast of air that almost deafened him and blew him and Cattie-brie off of their feet.

"What in the Nine Hells was that?" His daughter exclaimed as she pulled herself back together.

Bruenor could only shrug his shoulders. Still, there was the possibility that it might be dangerous. "Tell Olthick and Mortar to get up here, we're heading out to see what that thing was."

"Are you sure it's safe?" Cattie asked.

"Don't question me, girl, just go get them. This reeks of some wizard…"

* * *

For hundreds of miles around, the inhabitants of Faerun bore witness to the fireball. In Ten Towns, Regis found himself shaken out of his bed from the light and the blast. Out on the frozen plains, the Barbarians saw it, as did the few goblinoids that dared to stick their heads out of their caves.

None could comprehend the changes that would come, what that fireball would herald.

* * *

&

* * *

Okay, hope that wasn't too off the wall for everyone.

As is the case with my other stories, all feedback, be it a general comment, something you liked, a mistake, something that doesn't make sense, general constructive criticism, ideas for the story, or even flames, are welcomed with open arms. Constructive criticism is especially welcomed, as its the only way I'm going to get better.

I hope this has proven to be worth your while, and that you are not currently wishing to murder me for any mental anguish that I may have caused you in the course of reading this.

Until next time, thank you all, and have a pleasant day.


	2. Welcome to the Neighborhood

Well, hello again everyone. I'm still pretty nervous about this whole thing, and I hope this chapter proves to be worth the wait.

I want to thank everyone who took the time to read the last chapter, and I hope that you didn't suffer brain damage from its off the wall crossings. To those of you who left reviews, I hope that I have been able to answer your questions adequately, and you have my sincerest gratitude.

Lawyers- you know the drill. I don't own, you don't sue.

* * *

** Welcome to the Neighborhood.**

* * *

"Status report?" Keyes said, rubbing her forehead.

"Ship armor and hull integrity still solid," Cortana said, "shutting down the main reactor now. Auxiliaries still running, auto-cannons still online, attempting sensor scans of the surrounding area." Cortana said.

"Everyone okay?" Johnson barked.

"Green," the Chief said, though Johnson knew that his friend had to be uncomfortable. The acceleration seat that he was strapped into had been designed with a normal human in mind… not a half ton walking tank. The ODST didn't even want to think about how the Arbiter had to feel right now.

"I am alive, though I must admit that I've had better landings." Orna said, hoping out of his seat. His cloven, hoofed feet clacked against the deck and he reached up behind his head to rub his neck painfully.

"Data assembled," Cortana said. "We've come down right where we wanted to. Damage to the surrounding environment is near catastrophic, and we've torn a twenty kilometer canyon through the ground, but we avoided population centers. Collateral damage should be almost non-existent."

"Well, we're down, any ideas or suggestions?" Keyes looked around.

"Ma'am, I'd recommend that we shut down all non-essential power to maintain our fuel. Minimum life support only." John said. Getting up out of his seat and stretching slightly.

"Chief's right," Cortana looked around at the flesh and blood beings before her. "We've got remote sensors that can be set up around the ship to spot incoming trouble. As for the auto-turrets, no need to keep them powered up unless we need them.

"With your permission ma'am, I'd like to take a Mongoose and go scout, take some of those scanners with me," The Spartan saluted.

"Permission granted. Johnson, Arbiter, go help him load up. Cortana, you and I are going to stay here and see if there's anything more we can analyze about this world."

* * *

The Spartan looked around himself as he shot out of a side landing bay. His Mongoose hit the ground and its tires caught on the ice, propelling him forward. The stars, unknown, never before seen by Human eyes blinked before him. His eyes moved down to the area around where the _Forward unto Dawn_ had come down. The trench it had torn through the ground was more than a hundred meters deep, and pools of still cooling liquid rock mixed with water, putting steam up into the air that refroze and crystallized as it cleared the ship's vicinity. Water tried to form into ice, creating a myriad of beautiful artificial sculptures around him.

John wasted no more time on the scenery, though. He had a mission to accomplish. He was to head forty klicks out and set up the perimeter of the base. He could have taken one of the Pelicans, but this would be more discrete. Something had troubled him. On the way down, Cortana had picked up large population readings, several hundred million life-forms, mostly clustered around the central regions of the planet, with more underneath the surface and into the crust. There was, however, almost zero indication of industrialization. No power grids, no visible mechanized plants… nothing. It was entirely possible that this planet had not yet reached that stage of its growth. If so, there was no need to risk scaring the locals any more than they probably already had.

The Mongoose clawed its way up the sides of the newly formed canyon, clinging to the walls like a spider. Once he was up over the top, the cyborg gunned the throttle and shot off. His speedometer hit sixty… eighty… one hundred and twenty… one hundred and seventy. A pulse of adrenaline spiked through the soldier, and he focused on world around him. It moved slowly despite his speed… Spartan Time. He kept the headlight of the vehicle off, though. Over snow, on a night like this, it would be seen for kilometers. His own, built in night vision would suffice for the moment.

The two dozen sensors that he was to place were magnetically attached to the back of the ATV, and he wore a BR-55 rifle across his back, with a M6D pistol strapped to his right hip. Several grenades were secured by an ammo bandolier he had slung across his chest and across his back, just above his supply belt, was a large knife. Fondly nicknamed "Helljumper Toothpicks" by the ODSTs that used them, it was a twelve inch long monster, doubled bladed and curved slightly at the tip. He wasn't expecting trouble, but only a fool went in unprepared.

At the speed it was going, it only took him a few minutes to reach the outlying point of his destination. He looked around. The tundra was clear and flat for miles. He brought the ATV to a halt, jumped off, grabbed a sensor, and quickly prepared to deploy it. The machine was automated, all he had to do was press the button. The machine scanned his armor, registered him as an authorized user, and then shot into the ground. A small auger on its base activated and it drilled itself down into the snow and semi-frozen dirt. In mere seconds it was at a depth of ten meters—deep enough that nothing should be able to bother it. Nodding to himself, the Spartan covered it back up, and then moved on. He had a lot of ground to cover, and he was looking forward to a little luxury R&R when this mission was over: five hours of uninterrupted sleep, a hot meal, and maybe even a shower.

* * *

Casius banged his gavel on the table of the Ten Towns council chamber in a futile attempt to bring about some order. No one seemed to want to listen, though. The other council members were shaking fists and hurling curses at each other. This pre-dawn meeting was getting them nowhere fast.

"Another glorious day in the life of a councilor, ey, friend?"

Casius looked down to see Regis sitting next to him. The tiny Hafling was barely half his human compatriots' size, but Regis had always carried himself well in the chamber… though part of that was doubtlessly that ruby pendant he wore around his neck, capable of charming and enspelling those who looked into its depths. He noticed that it was absent today. Since the secret was out, it seemed that he was using it less and less often. Still, the human found himself wishing for it right now… if only so that Regis would use it to quiet this place down so he could hear himself think.

The doors burst open and in walked Cattie-Brie, flanked by a quartet of heavily armed Dwarves.

"Silence!" one of them bellowed, smashing the butt of a massive battle axe into the floor.

It got the desired result. Everyone stopped shouting and looked at the fiery haired woman.

"That's better, my lords," she gave a coy bow. "I understand that everyone is troubled by the events of last night—"

"Troubled is not the word, lady Battlehammer," Kemp of Targos sneered at her. "The other towns are in a virtual panic." He placed heavy emphasis on the word "other." While Kemp was a seasoned fighter, being head of the second largest town in the region had gone to his head, and he constantly reminded others of their inferiority, he also had little in the way of diplomatic skills. "The war with Kessel bled us dry, if this is another trick by one of the wizards at Luskan, we're finished."

"Since when have wizards been able to hurl fireballs the size of mountains?" Regis spoke up, glaring over at Kemp. "That fireball was not crafted by the hands of a mortal wizard, I can assure you. I've seen wizards… been around more of them in my lifetime than the rest of you in this room combined."

"Kessel erased half of my town with a single blast from his tower," Kemp began.

"Using an arcane artifact powerful enough to bend a Balor to its will!" Regis cut him off with a gesture. "On his own, he was nothing… Gods be praised."

"An artifact that was never recovered," Casius stated. "It's entirely possible that someone could have found that crystal again, or that it might have been something not of the Material Plane. Perhaps another Baalor, or a Pit Fiend."

"Those are possibilities," Regis muttered.

"My father has already set out with two of our best soldiers to investigate the area where the fireball landed." Cattie-Brie held up her hand to stem the argument that she knew was coming. "He suspects that he'll be back with your answers inside of two weeks."

"Ah, yes, your charming father," Kemp grumbled. "Why isn't he sending that black skinned rat to fetch us some answers? Isn't that usually who you go scrambling too?"

"That black skinned rat, as you call him," Casius spoke up, "has saved all of our lives more times than we can count, so I would ask that you show him a little more respect, Kemp. As for Drizzt, he has currently departed for a temporary stay in Silverymoon."

"Indeed," Cattie-Brie crossed her arms and looked over to the Targos councilor, "I suspect he wanted to find out what it was like where people would actually be grateful to him for saving their worthless hides."

Kemp's face went red as his temper flared up. He leapt to his feet, and reached for a small sword he was wearing. The Dwarven guards just growled, though, unimpressed by the human. They brandished their axes, swords, and hammers menacingly. Kemp was momentarily cowed, realizing that the prospect of facing five seasoned warriors with a small blade and no armor was probably not the most conductive towards his continued breathing.

Fortunately, though, the meeting soon turned to its usual subject: arguments over who owned what portion of the three lakes that the towns surrounded. Cattie-Brie and Regis just exchanged a glance with one another and sighed. Life seemed to be getting back to normal.

* * *

The Master Chief planted the last of the probes in the ground and smiled faintly. Mission accomplished. Dawn had just crested the horizon, and the perimeter was now secure. There was nothing else to be done but to head back.

The cyborg decided to take one last look around the area. He switched his suit over to thermal viewing, and gazed around the landscape. It was icy cold, the lot of it, just as it always had been.

He had almost completed his scan when he noticed something. A blob of heat, barely more than a speck. He zoomed his visor in, the built in binoculars going to thirty two X in a matter of milliseconds. Despite himself, the Spartan's jaw dropped. He switched back to normal vision and blinked, once, twice, three times.

There was no mistaking it… he was looking at a reindeer.

"Sierra-117 to Dawn," he growled into a commline.

"Dawn here, go ahead 117," Cortana's voice was coy, as usual.

"Uploading visual package, I think you and the commander are going to want to see this." Even as he spoke, more of the small deer started moving into his field of view.

His suit's data recordings were bundled off in a flash, received, decrypted, and analyzed by Cortana in a matter of nanoseconds.

"Chief… am I seeing what I think I'm seeing?" The A.I. sounded flabbergasted. It was a tone that John was not used to hearing from her.

"I'm not sure," he shrugged.

It was true, this place was a lot like Earth, but what were the odds that whatever proto-evolutionary form that the thing might have come from would have come up to be exactly like the ones on Earth? Something wasn't adding up, and the cyborg didn't like it.

"Cortana, can you confirm what we're seeing here?" Commander Keyes said.

"Well, it's warm-blooded, and appears superficially similar to the ones we're familiar with. I'd need a full DNA scan to determine more…" she trailed off, and the Master Chief suddenly had a sinking feeling he knew where this conversation was heading. Chief, bring one of those back, I'd like to study it," He could practically feel the codes racing across Cortana's surface as she brought herself up to full speed.

"Besides, we could use the meat to boost our rations," Johnson said. "Eating cold MREs till the fleet shows up to pull us out of here is not something I particularly look forward too."

Chief found himself in silent agreement with Johnson. Besides, information was power, for whatever it was worth. He thought about the best approach for a few moments. His weapons were both too powerful for such a purpose. The rifles rounds were as large as his thumb, his pistols even larger—and explosive to boot. With a sigh, he drew his knife from its sheath and started towards them.

* * *

Meanwhile, a few hundred miles away, in the town of Silverymoon, a certain dark elf was hustling about in his chambers. The mages in and around Silverymoon were abuzz about a fireball that had come screaming down near Ten Towns the previous night. Information was scarce, but those from the Hosttower in Luskan had stated that had been massive, nearly the size of a mountain. The Drow knew there were only a few such creatures that could cause such a calamity, and fewer still of those would be on friendly terms with mortals.

"Scimitars, check," he belted Twinkle and Icingdeath on, before slinging on a bow and quiver, his bed roll and supply pack. "Supplies, rations, check." He instinctively felt at his pocket to his right, making certain that the onyx figurine inside of it was secure. He breathed a sigh of relief when it was. Guenhwyvar was his closest friend, and he was always paranoid about leaving the panther behind somehow.

"Favorite companion, check."

"Leaving already?"

Drizzt turned to see a young human standing in the shadows of the doorway. Dove Falconhand, the younger sister of Lady Alustriel and a fellow ranger stood there. She had her arms crossed and looked somewhat upset.

"My apologies to you, Lady Falconhand, but I fear that I must return to my home. The calamity that came from the skies last night must have come down near there." He hastily pocketed a few more supplies, minor potions and the like, before double checking all the straps and harnesses. "Though the Ten Towns have not always been kind to me, my duty is to them. I have to make sure they're safe." Her face fell further, and a kind smile came to the ranger's face. "However, you have my word that I shall return once I am free. I haven't forgotten your promise to give me a tour of the city." He bowed again, and started to move.

"Head for the stables then," Dove said, resigning herself. "My elder sister has seen to it that a special mount be provided to hasten your journey back to Icewind Dale."

Drizzt nodded, and hastily made his way down from the keep where he had been staying. It tore at him bitterly to have to leave this wondrous city so quickly. The myriad of architecture from all over the world was a sight to behold, to say nothing of the people! Elves, Dwarves, and Humans all mixed and mingled with each other, with Half Orcs, hybrids of all sorts as well. He had even laid eyes on a Kobold merchant, cheerily selling his wares in the streets.

And their treatment of him… nowhere had he seen the hate filled glares, fear filled eyes, or the loathing that had hounded him ever since he had come to the surface world. For the first time since Bruenor had taken him in, and Regis accepted him as a friend, he felt like he actually was seen for who he was, and not what his skin, ears, and eyes painted him as.

Such a shame to have to leave this sanctuary and return to the Dale. Kemp of Targos was still threatening to put a blade in his gut if he even so much as looked at him again.

Still the Dwarves and more recently, the Barbarians were his friends and allies, and he was not going to leave them to themselves with what had just happened.

The Drow headed out to the stables, where one of the guards greeted him with a salute.

"This way if you will, Sir," he gestured the dark elf along. "The Lady has a special gift for you."

They turned the corner, and Drizzt found his mouth going slack in disbelief. It was no ordinary steed that stood before him. Standing nearly seven feet at the shoulder, the massive black horse seemed to fade in and out of the material plane. An arcane mount, one that would not tire and could ride on for days, weeks, if the rider chose to do so. With something like this, Drizzt knew that he could be back inside of the Dale's reach within a week.

With grace that was beyond human, Drizzt leaped up into the saddle. A word of command, and the ethereal steed shot off.

For better or worse, he was going back home.

* * *

The Spartan moved as slowly as he dared. The lack of a proper ranged weapon was grating on his nerves. It was just like hunting Covenant, he reminded himself, only these creatures were less intelligent. He tried to remember what he could about the stalking of wild animals from Chief Mendez's training. They reacted to sudden movement, so slow, even steps were the best. They were also color blind, which helped him greatly, and also relied mostly on scent to detect cunning predators. His suit prevented that from reaching them, so as long as he made no sudden moves and focused on his objective, it should be possible to do what he was trying here.

"Chief, Status?" Cortana asked.

"Fifty meters and closing. Trying not to spook them. I need a better weapon for this, though." He growled. His eyes narrowed, and he slowly looked around himself, making certain that there was nothing else but him and the caribou herd. Most predators were instinctual, and would probably be smart enough to realize that the Spartan was a more ferocious animal than they were, and not try to tangle with him. Still, one could never be certain. Assumptions were the death of a soldier, more often than not.

He was within thirty meters now. His motion sensors were staring to pick up fain traces from the herd's travels. Here was where it was going to get tricky. He took a slow step, wishing he had a sniper's net to drag over himself. Something like that would aid immensely.

He looked around again and cursed his surroundings. The nooks and crannies that the mountains made meant that keeping a line of sight with the surrounding area was a difficult task at best. The reindeer were in a small V shaped area that curved around the slope of one of the peaks.

Grumbling to himself again, he took another step, and then paused. The hackles on the back of his neck stood up. Soldier's instinct was kicking in. He wasn't alone. He scanned around with infrared again, certain that it had to be close wherever it was. Nothing, nothing that he could see. He opened his ears even more. There was the grunting of the deer as they searched for grass and roots among the rocks. The trees were devoid of anything except birds, which were silent…

Silent birds?

The Spartan tightened his grip on his knife. There was something very much amiss here. He resisted the urge to twist as he heard rocks clatter from up above. He slowly looked up and scanned the peaks. He saw a faint heat dot at the far end of one, no larger than a human head, maybe a hundred meters distant. He zoomed in on it, and watched as it moved. It turned out to be a hand, a hand that appeared to have prominent claws. A head joined it, and the Spartan watched as a creature crawled around the peak.

Now this one was definitely not from the Earth he knew. He returned his sight to normal, and saw that it possessed a shaggy white coat, perfect for blending in with the winter landscape. Claws, and fangs, combined with a vaguely gorilla-ish appearance made it remind him of a Brute. He was instantly on alert. That thing couldn't be anything but a predator.

Then he watched as seven more joined the original. There were eight of them, moving in towards the deer, spreading out and preparing to encircle them. An ambush. So, they were smart enough for pack level hunting tactics. He made sure that his recorder was working, and glanced back at the deer. The creatures were sniffing the wind. They sensed that something was wrong… but the… predators, were downwind, there was no way to smell them.

The Chief knew that trouble was brewing, and that if he wanted to get Cortana's sample, he needed to be swift, before those things scattered the herd. Tightening his grip on his knife, the Spartan went for broke. He dashed in, faster than any normal human could have moved. The caribou spotted him, and a warning grunt was issued to the herd. But the one closest to him never had a chance. Cobra quick, the Spartan crossed the thirty meter distance in the blink of an eye. His knife lashed out, its blade, which had been honed by a laser to be virtually monomolecular, slashed across the throat and jugular, sending bright red blood across the snow. The creature tried to thrash for a moment or two while it bled out, but John was well clear of its strikes. The reindeer gurgled and then slumped to the ground. Grunting, he moved to hoist it and leave before the creatures could become a problem.

They snarled as they saw what he had done, and the eight of them bolted forward. John understood. They were looking for an easy kill, in this case, one where the kill had already been made for them. He could move with the deer fast enough to get to his Mongoose, but could he secure it quickly enough?

He brandished the knife. They were smart enough to hunt in packs, and had just seen what he could do; maybe they would be smart enough to leave him alone.

They spread out as they rushed in, several moving to try and flank him.

"Apparently not," the Chief muttered out loud.

In a single, fluid move he drew his pistol with his left hand and sighted up the closest creature. He pulled the trigger, and the M6D kicked against his palm. Time started to slow as he entered combat, his foes appearing to move like they were wading through thick mud. The first round penetrated his target at chest level. A blossom of crimson had started to form in the split second before the explosive payload of the powerful, fifty caliber round detonated. There was a flash, a boom, and the upper half of the thing was virtually erased from existence. Blood splattered everywhere, covering some of its comrades. If they noticed, they didn't seem to care.

He sighted up another one, and gunned it down. The round penetrated its side, right above where the forth rib was. The Chief was graced with a look of its internals as the round blew a basket-ball sized chunk of its body out. He had time for one more shot before they were upon him. He twisted and fired to the side at one of the ones attempting to flank him. The bullet hit it in the hip, next to the femoral artery. The ensuing blast blew the leg apart, and the creature went down with a howl that echoed through the mountains.

Then they were upon him. He tightened the grip on the knife again, and kept an eye both on the three at his front and on his motion sensor for the two behind him. The beasts didn't know that he had eyes in the back of his head. They'd strike there first, if he didn't turn to acknowledge the threat.

Sure enough, the creature lashed out at him, trying to get those claws into his back. The Spartan leapt, four and a half meters straight up, more than twice his own height. The predator was dumbfounded as to where its prey had gone and neatly stumbled forward into the trap.

Tundra Yeti's were powerful creatures, strong enough to rip a man in half, and their bones were sturdy, especially the neck, which had to hold up such a large skull. Those vertebrae were not, however, designed to hold up to the five hundred kilograms of power armor, iron-dense bone and rock hard flesh of an irritated cyborg coming down on it in a split second. The vertebrae became so much dust under John's right foot, while his left shattered what had once been its spine and left a deep impression of his boot in its corpse.

The four others were not disturbed by their fellow's death, and the two from the sides pressed home at once.

* * *

Unknown to the Spartan, or to the Yeti's that were fighting him, was that they were not as alone as they thought. Just a few hundred meters away was a young boy, scarcely into the latter half of his teenage years. Rognar, son of Elthiliak, he was called, a member of the tribe of the Elk. It had once been the largest of the twelve barbarian tribes, but their assault on Ten Towns when he had been just a lad, a raid that claimed his father's life, and the war with Kessel had made it to where it only had a few score capable warriors left. It had still been better off than other tribes, which had almost been utterly wiped out and forced to incorporate into larger ones for survival.

The coming of winter's hardest period was upon them soon, and the meat stores were running low. Every hand was needed to bring in game before the next blizzard hit. That was why he was out here now. Armed with a bow and a spear, wrapped in wolf furs to keep the cold at bay, he struggled to find the game he sought. Behind him was a small sleigh to help him carry whatever he might find back. There were caribou tracks before him, but the boy was not certain if he would find them. He had heard their cry a few minutes earlier, and knew that another hunter had found them. Still, he had to try.

He was shocked when a loud roar echoed through the canyon a few moments later. The call was easily recognizable: a Tundra Yeti, some of the most ferocious predators at this end of the world. This one however, sounded like it was in pain. Roars of rage testified that there were others.

The boy knew that it might be another hunter, or perhaps someone from the Towns. He didn't much care for those people, the way they always looked down on his kind, but they tended to be wealthy, and some pieces of silver, copper, or perhaps even gold could go along way in securing stores for the winter.

He hurried up over the top of the rocky ledge, and sure enough, about a hundred feet off, he saw a quartet of Yetis. However, what surprised him more was that there were four more, one lying on the ground in a pool of its own blood, its leg missing, and another one that appeared to have had its neck broken, and two more that… well, he wasn't exactly certain what in the Nine Hells had happened to those two.

Then he saw what had done it. It looked like a man to the boy… an enormous man, larger than even his people, and clad in a suit of armor the Gods themselves would envy. Then he took another look. Was it really a man? The affairs of late had taught him enough about wizards. He had been told tales of constructs by Wulfgar, golems, they were called. Massive beasts of flesh or steel, created to do their master's bidding. Infused with powerful magicks, they were supernaturally tough and strong. It would explain the man's size, and there were some things about that armor that didn't make sense to the young lad. There was a gold colored plate across the front, that completely hid whatever face might be back there. How might a man see through something like that?

He moved in closer, trying to get a better idea, and knowing that he might have to help, for all the good his spear would do him against those numbers. It would take a well placed thrust with plenty of power behind it to fell a Yeti, and even then, it sometimes took a while. He had only planned to find one or two, not a full pack.

The armored figure snapped its head towards him for a split second, and one of the Yetis took that time to strike.

The sight that followed, Rognar knew he would carry with him to the afterlife.

The Yeti lunged, its claws outstretched to maul its victim. The other creature seemed to blur and flow, then. The swipe finished, and connected with nothing but air. Rognar blinked, the thing… for he now knew that it could be no man, simply wasn't there anymore. The Yeti suddenly screamed in agony and clutched at its back before falling to its knees and slumping to the ground. Blood went everywhere, and Rognar knew that the golem, or whatever it was, had severed the spinal cord with the strike.

The next Yeti lunged blindly at the thing. The knife weaved and dove while the creature blurred into action again. It took a few moments for Rognar to sort out what had happened, for there was a split second howl of agony, swiftly silenced, and then the Yeti's head seemed to crumple and come apart like an over-ripe melon struck by an axe. It was then he realized that the armor clad thing had in the course of less than a second, sliced through its arm, made a cut through its chest, and then spun around and kicked the beast upside the head.

The final two acted as one, lunging in from either side. The golem was once again nothing more than a faint blur through the air. The monster vaulted over the first Yeti, and the knife it was carrying lashed out. The blow neatly severed the neck, leaving the head hanging on by just the few forward tendons. It collapsed in a heap, but the final member of the pack just kept running regardless, as it landed, the golem lashed out again, and a powerful stroke that came down across the creature's side, dove into its groin and left a shower of blood. In the same motion the green armored being spun around and ducked, sweeping the Yeti's legs out from underneath it. Pitching forward from its own momentum, the Yeti's last sight was of a knife blade coming up to meet it.

The Yeti that had had its leg torn off, and the one with the severed spinal cord were still alive, and were pitifully trying to crawl away from their prey-turned-predator. The creature observed them for a second, before it walked up, bent down, and buried the knife into the back of the first's head. It shuddered for a moment and then died. The one with a missing leg continued to howl and snarl at its foe. Rognar saw the golem cock its head to one side, then it raised something, he couldn't quite make out what. The Yeti's upper torso suddenly flew apart and a loud bang reached his ears.

His eyes widened for a moment. A golem that knew magic? Wulfgar had never spoken of something like that. Further, what mage would dare to create a servant of that power? What if he should lose control of it?

Then it turned and stared right at him. Fear clutched at the boy's bowels; for while he knew something of the ways of wizards and golems, he knew not how they commanded their constructs. Might it attack him next, thinking him an obstacle?

The Master Chief, for his part, was utterly dumbfounded by what he was seeing. He kept changing his vision modes, zooming in, examining the boy's face. His eyes and his mind conflicted with one another, logic and reasoning arguing back and forth and for the second time that morning, his jaw dropped just a bit.

"What… the…." Cortana began as the visual package was unloaded back at the Dawn.

"Hell…" Johnson finished. "Is that…?"

"Attempting a scan," Cortana said. "Biometrics, body temp, all I'm missing is a DNA sample… that's a human."

The lad hesitantly brandished the spear towards the Chief. The Spartan knew that it didn't have a chance of hurting him, but he understood by the waver in the end of the weapon, and the look on his face that the boy was scared of him. He got that reaction a lot, even from those he was protecting. In this apparently medieval aged world, who knew what kind of demon the boy might be mistaking him for?

"Should I attempt first contact?" He asked.

"Negative, get back here with those samples. We've logged your position and we're dispatching a UAV," Keyes said. "Besides, you need rest, the mission clock says it's been more than seventy hours since you got anything vaguely resembling sleep."

"Not the first time, ma'am. Med stims will keep me good for another ten hours." John responded.

"Negative, Chief, I want you fresh and ready in case something comes along. Now load up that deer and one of those… things, and get back here."

"Yes ma'am."

The Spartan looked over the corpses, trying to find the one that appeared to be the most intact. Finally, he settled on the one that he'd paralyzed. It seemed the least damaged.

He shook the blood from his knife, sheathed it, and grabbed the two carcasses. Then he trekked back to the Mongoose, pausing just long enough to secure them before tearing off back to the Dawn.

Rognar, once he was sure the creature was gone, moved in as quickly as he could. He needed proof of his story. That thing might be a threat to his people, and if so, they would need to be ready. Besides, though it was greasy and tough, Yeti meat was still meat.

* * *

&

* * *

Okay, well, I hope that chapter was enjoyable for you all, and that it didn't make any of you wretch in disgust.

Not really sure what else to say, except thank you for your time, and any feedback, from ideas, to flames, and especially constructive criticism, is welcomed with open arms.


	3. Chapter Two Observations, Plans, and a

Hello everyone, sorry for the big delay. School's been a bit of a pain lately (five exams over the past seven days... there needs to be a law against that.) At any rate, hope the chapter is up to snuff.

Once again, to all who have taken the time out of their busy lives to read this thing, I humbly thank you, and for those of you who have reviewed, I hope that I have answered your questions adequately. bows humbly

At any rate, here's chapter two, hope everyone enjoys it.

* * *

**Chapter Two- Observations, Plans, and a Xanatos Gambit.**

* * *

Bruenor's breath seemed to crystallize before the dwarf. He was cold despite his furs, and frost could be seen on his usually red beard. Moradin had been kind to them, though, and the weather had warmed slightly. As a result, their travels had been swift and sure. They'd cut two days of their expected travel time, and now their destination lay before them. The many huts of the combined Barbarian Tribes were down in the valley in front of him and his two companions. Smoke drifted up from the campfires that cooked what meat there was in preparation for the next storm. The Dwarf King frowned though, when he observed the perimeter of the camp. The encampment was a full half mile in length and breadth, and there appeared to be less than sixty guards around it. A mere token resistance. If the Orcs dared to attack now…

He shook his head. With luck, the cowardly beasts had been too badly set back in the war with Kessel to cause trouble.

"Let's go," he said to the others, who nodded.

They were spotted soon enough, as they made no attempt to hide their movements. The guard called out to them, his waraxe held at the ready. Though they had been allies recently, the Barbarians would not soon forget the slaughter that had happened in their last raid on Ten Towns, some six years ago. Clan Battlehammer Dwarves had utterly slaughtered more than a thousand tribesmen that day, a blow that they would spend generations recovering from.

"Well met, lad," Bruenor leaned slightly on his axe as he drew close. "Nice and alert, just like you should be."

"What business have you here?" The north-man's voice remained gruff, and he was wary.

"You can probably figure it out, but in case you can't, I'll give you a hint: it fell out of the sky not five days ago." The Dwarf smirked.

"Yet another seeking it…" he paused. "Fine, make your way to the center of the camp, you will find King Revajik there, along with Wulfgar. They're currently bandying words with one of those wizards."

"A wizard?" Bruenor was on guard instantly. "What's one o' there kind doing here?"

"She would not say, not that she needed too. 'Arrived by means of sorcery just this morning. I'd bet half my winter rations that her fellows are the cause of this mess. Probably lost control of one of their… abominations."

The way the man had spoken it led Bruenor to believe there was more going on here than he knew about.

"What do you mean?" he asked. Better to go to this meeting fully prepared and armed with all of the knowledge that he could get.

"One of our youngest, Rognar, four days ago, encountered a golem the likes of which none of us has ever heard of. I don't know all the details, but the king has forbidden anyone from even going near where the fireball came down." The guard scratched at his unkempt beard. "You had best hurry though, the words of our king won't bind a person of sorcery, and you know how those robed ones can be around dangerous things."

"Like a Gnome in a crystal shop," Bruenor groaned and shook his head. "Thanks for the help, though." He motioned to Olthick and Mortar, both of whom came up behind him.

* * *

It didn't take long to reach where the meeting was, and sure enough, there were Revajik and Wulfgar. The former was the one that Wulfgar had passed his kingship onto, a tall wiry man who preferred to let his wits do the fighting. Wulfgar himself had changed little. The blond haired man was still enormous, and his muscles like bands of steel. His belt also held a familiar sight: Aegis-Fang, a powerful warhammer that Bruenor had forged himself. Made of mirthril and admantite, the weapon was potent enough to send fear into the gods themselves, and slay giants with a single throw.

Before the two men was a black robed figure, a hood covering its head: the mage the guard had spoke of. The Dwarf could hear snatches of conversation and they drew closer.

"We know only that the thing is dangerous," Revajik said, his arms crossed over his chest, "Rognar spoke little of the creature, except to tell us that it was strong, fast, and it could do this to a Tundra Yeti." He gestured to a tent behind him.

Bruenor moved up close, and it was then that Wulfgar looked behind the mage and saw him. Instantly, his face lit up, and a deep throated laugh came from within him.

"Bruenor!" he exclaimed, walking over, before snatching the dwarf up and giving him a spine crushing hug.

"Ack! What in the Hells?" the Dwarf king sputtered. "Put me down this instant, pup, before I cut you down to a height more suited for your age!"

"Same old Bruenor," Wulfgar chuckled, placing a now very much red in the face dwarf back down on the snow.

Bruenor fumed inside, but knew that he was helpless to do anything. Wulfgar was the closest thing that he had to a son, raised and trained by him many years ago, after the raid.

"I'll assume you're also here about the… disturbance." Revajik said, moving up and bowing before the Dwarf.

"Aye, your guards were speaking about a wizard, too." He nodded towards the black robed figure, who turned and lowered the cowl over her face. Her skin was pale, and her hair the same color of her robes. Green eyes glittered with intelligence, set into a face that reminded the dwarf faintly of a falcon.

"Lady Alicia, was it?" Wulfgar looked over at her, and she nodded.

"I come from the Hosttower in Luskan, and am here to confirm the nature of the disturbance and this so called golem that one of the plainsmen claim has come from it." She said.

"Meaning no offense, milady," Bruenor said, "but it was a rather large fireball that stirred up the whole region. Giant balls of flame happen to be the stock and trade of your kind."

"I can assure you that if it was the doing of a wizard, it was not one of our branch. There has been much infighting at the Tower, with the death of Dendibar the Mottled, the wizards are vying for his seat on the Arcmage's council."

"Oh, that little arse," Bruneor growled. The wizard had caused them no end of trouble when he'd been searching for his ancestral home. Dispatching his own apprentice, a golem, and the assassin, Artemis Entreri, after them. It had nearly been their deaths on more than one occasion.

"I understand your concern for your village, King Revajik, but I must be allowed to ascertain this creature's nature, and determine the threat it poses, if any." Alicia said, looking to the king.

Revajik shook his head. "And as I told you before, my lady, I cannot spare any of my men. We're nearly starving as it is, and I will not risk losing any more of my people, either to Orcs and Goblins, or this… thing."

"What exactly makes it so dangerous?" Bruenor asked.

Revajik simply pointed to the tent behind him. The Dwarf shrugged and entered. The sight before his eyes made him stop short. Five Tundra Yetis, well, what was left of five, were in it, surrounded by snow and ice to keep them from decomposing.

"Rognar was off in the mountains when he saw the creature," Wulfgar said, drawing up behind him. "Apparently it was fighting with this Yeti pack over a slain reindeer. There were eight, initially. Two we carved up for food, a third was carried off by the golem itself."

Bruenor drew up close and stared at the corpses. There were slashing wounds, evidence of a sharp knife or blade of some kind, and further, one missing most of its head, but then there were three that puzzled him the most. One was little more than half a Yeti, everything above the middle of its abdominal muscles completely absent. Another had an enormous chunk missing out of its side. Then there was a third that was on its back.

The Dwarf king examined the two damaged ones first. The wounds were large, and gapping, but there was something about them that puzzled him. Small bits of the area were blackened and charred, partially cauterized and fused. He knew of nothing that caused a wound like that. Fireballs set people aflame and burned flesh and fur alike. This had been localized, almost like someone had set off a small fireball _inside_ of the Yeti.

"We believe that it was some kind of magic that may have been responsible for this," Revajik said. "Rognar said that the creature had a wand of sorts, and that was what caused this."

"Another reason why it could not have been us," Alicia stated. "No wizard would be foolish enough to give their creation an understanding of magic. They're dangerous enough on their own."

Bruenor nodded and then moved over to the final Yeti. He stopped short. Buried in the creature's back was an enormous boot-print, larger than any he had ever seen before. He poked and prodded at the impression, feeing the crushed body organs and bones underneath. The neck appeared similar, squashed absolutely flat. Whatever had done this had weighed over half a ton.

"This thing is clearly dangerous," the wizard said, looking to the others. "If you cannot spare any men, King Revajik, I understand. But I have my own duties to perform. I must try and make contact with this thing."

"Same here," Bruenor said, "I may not care much for Ten Towns, with them being more stubborn than an old mule, and so thickheaded that Rumblebelly had to bewitch them into defending themselves with that stone o' his, but they're the closest trading partners that we've got."

Revajik sighed, and nodded. Wulfgar looked uncertain and stepped over near the Dwarfs. "Well, I can't just let my mentor wander out alone, now then can I?"

"I see those lessons on loyalty weren't wasted on you, boy, but you don't have to do this." Bruenor knew it was just a taken statement. Once Wulfgar set his mind on something, nothing could deter him.

"I set out immediately," Alicia warned.

"As do I, spell caster. Just be warned," Bruenor shook a finger at her. "If you fall behind, you get left behind."

"I'd be more worried about you keeping up," she said with a wry smile. "Those short little legs must make running difficult."

"Do I smell a wager?"

"Perhaps," she nodded. Then turned and left.

* * *

The Master Chief spread the oil over his weapons with loving care. They were vital pieces of equipment, and though he was not so foolish as to trust his life to them, treated them with the utmost respect. Once he was done, he reassembled the battle rifle, and slapped it to his back.

Then he went to the mess. It was time for breakfast.

Johnson was already there, as was the Arbiter. "Morning, Chief," the Sergeant Major gave him a two fingered salute. "Up for some venison?"

The Caribou that the Spartan had downed had provided them with almost two hundred pounds of edible meat, once Cortana had confirmed that it was indeed genetically identical to the ones found on Earth. The predator had proven somewhat less so. Its meat was tough, greasy, and had a taste to it that reminded the Spartan of undercooked squirrels. Fortunately, Orna had taken an instant liking to it. The Elite's lack of a lower jaw and much of a tongue, and therefore, taste buds, had aided immensely in that fact. The Sangehili picked up a hunk of rare flesh, and dropped it back into his throat.

Chief shook his head, popping the seal on his helmet and drawing up next to the two soldiers. He sat down, the table's bench groaning slightly under his massive bulk. He took the headgear off, grabbed a tray, and speared himself a hunk of deer.

They couldn't spare much power for cooking, so it was not much beyond raw. Still, it had a spicy, beef like taste to it, which was absolutely a slice of heaven compared to his usual combat rations.

"The Commander still trying to raise FleetComm?" The cyborg asked.

"She's got Cortana on that. Right now she's trying to get a good idea of where we stand with vehicles." Johnson cut off a slice of meat and gestured with his fork. "Our ammunition manufacturing facility is going to have problems getting enough DU for the larger caliber weapons. She's running scans to see if there's anything we can use nearby. Otherwise, our Pelicans aren't going to be much more than glorified busses."

The Spartan nodded. "What about fuel for the tanks and other vehicles?"

"We got lucky there," Johnson smiled. "This world is pre industrial, so there's no one tapping the crude and natural gas. There's a large deposit of the stuff just a few kilometers away from here. Cortana thinks we can build a pipeline out to it, pump it up, and use it to power the charging generator. Not as efficient as using the ship's reactor, but that leaves more power available for the dawn, since we've got no clue how long we're going to be out here. It also beats the hell out of having to push a warthog. Later today, we're going to get started on cannibalizing some of the Dawn's non vital systems to try and get that pipeline assembled."

"I see," Chief muttered as he wolfed down a large hunk of his meal. "What else have we learned while I was sleeping?"

"Not much," Orna shrugged, placing a hunk of his meal down. "Your construct has calculated that we will be here for some time, though, months at the least… and years more likely, so we should get used to the snow."

"At least we're allowed to use the heater," Johnson said with a smile. He finished what was on his plate, and then drew out one of his cigars. He placed it into his mouth, but didn't light it. "And I must admit, I've forgotten how much I just like to chew on these things some times," he stretched.

"What about our neighbors?" the Spartan also finished his meal quickly. There was work to be done. "Any thing else since that hunting party came back to the battle site?"

"Not much, the UAV is still monitoring them, Cortana has analyzed something interesting though." Johnson took the cigar out of his mouth and held it between two fingers. "It's a large group of hunter-gatherers, sort of like the native Americans back home on Earth."

"Odd," the Chief muttered. "I would have thought that most of those tribes would have converted to farming or something, or at least moved to a more hospitable area." He tapped his fingers together in thought.

"Well that's not what's peculiar," Johnson leaned forward and took his cigar out of his mouth, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. "Based off the UAV's findings, Cortana estimates that there could be as many as four thousand people in that camp. One small problem, though. There's a major difference between the number of men and women. She's only spotted about two hundred and seventy five or so men that are past their early teenage years."

The Chief's brain kicked into action. He ran calculations through his head, equations and the like. A slightly lower than fifty percent ratio was to be expected. The men would likely be involved with hunting, and if there were other predators here that were anything like what he'd run into then the possibility of a high mortality rate was to be expected. Early Cro-Magnons had a what? Sixty percent chance of being killed or maimed beyond the point of being able to hunt by the time they were thirty? Granted, this tribe had access to what appeared to be steel and iron, so their odds of survival were likely somewhat higher in comparison. So then why were there so few?

A blizzard was out of the question, that wouldn't have discriminated between gender. Famine and plague had the same problems. Exposure while hunting was a possibility, but if they were that stupid they wouldn't have survived up her long enough for their numbers to reach where they were at. Tribal warfare? But with whom? They appeared to be the only people in this area… wait a minute.

"Did Cortana send the UAV over those small villages that we spotted up in orbit?" The Spartan bowed his head slightly, cradling the pale skin and faint growth of gray hair on his enormous hands.

Johnson smiled. "Bingo. Scans of the snow indicated that underneath it was a large amount of carbon based ash, and a shit-load of iron and steel that look like medieval weapons. Someone fought a battle there not too long ago, and it was a big one."

Interesting, so they were a hunter gatherer society that possibly supplemented their lively-hoods by raiding the towns. If that was the case, then the last raid must have been an absolute disaster.

The Spartan reached down and put his helmet back on. He would ponder this later when he had more time. Right now, they had a pipeline to build.

As he got up, though, he tensed, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. His gaze drifted down to his monition sensor, then he switched his helmet through its vision modes. He was being watched. But his eyes couldn't see anything.

_If you ever feel yourself at risk, but can't spot the threat, go with your gut, you'll be surprised how often its right_

Those had been CPO Mendez's words to them in their first week of Spartan training. He had never forgotten the lesson. His hands slowly drifted down to his weapon, a P-60 SMG that was attached to his hip.

He noticed that Johnson and Orna also had their weapons out. Scowls were on their faces as they swept the corners of the room with an MA5C carbine and plasma rifle respectively.

* * *

He started down at them through the bowl of water. A gauntleted hand rubbed at a faint beard, and he smiled.

"They seem to have taken notice of your scrying, Helm," A gruff voice said.

He turned to face the owner of the voice, a large, heavily muscled Dwarf. The armored warrior was leaning on a war hammer that was as large as he was, with an enormous (for his size, at least) broadsword buckled at the back of his waist. Between the horned helmet, and the almost comically fierce beard it was hard to see his face, but the god knew it nonetheless.

"What do you expect, Moradin?" He said, letting his hand drift down to the large, heavily plated helmet that sat next to the scrying pool. "Simply because their world branched off into technology, rather than magic, do not assume them to be wholly ignorant of it. Each one of those soldiers has decades of combat experience under their belts. Their instincts have become a sixth sense to them."

"You really think those two humans are going to be able to help my people out?" Moradie's eyes narrowed. "I just had to sit back and watch that bitch, Lloth, take over what my people had just managed to win back, because this damned problem with the Weave."

"Yes…" Helm turned to his friend. "They may be few in number, but I have told you what they're capable of. A single seed of wheat can mean the difference between survival and starvation. Besides," he smiled, "they won't be completely alone. I predict that they should be sufficient to teach that little spider a thing or two about messing with locations and relics that are not hers."

"And how come the others haven't seen you engineering this little scheme?" The Dwarf sounded confused.

"Simple. For one, I am the Watcher, blessed with foresight that they do not have. I have planned for every eventuality in this, and have spent my time carefully shielding their eyes, or keeping them otherwise occupied. Most of them are already too busy anyways," he shrugged, "everyone from Bhaal to Tyr are currently scrambling for contingency plans in the event of a mortal getting ambitious."

"You should probably be doing that yourself, rather than worrying over this," Moradine said with a gesture towards the humans and the Sangehili, currently still sweeping the bridges and the corridors with the help of their construct.

"My duty is to Toril first, my friend. Take care you do not forget that," Helm growled. "For too long I have watched that treacherous spider making her deals with the surface worlders, spreading her poison and corruption. It is time someone did something about it."

"I just hope you know what you're doing," Moradin ran a hand through his wild beard.

* * *

John growled as the feeling left him. "Cortana, you're positive that there was nothing showing on the scanners?"

"A strange fluctuation on the EM frequencies, but little other than that," the construct replied. "I'm trying to pin it down, but it just vanished."

"I don't like this," the Spartan muttered. "Keep scanning, if it comes back, isolate it and cut it off if you can.

"Nothing we can do about it now," Johnson said, "Let's get to building that pipeline."

"Your sergeant is correct," Orna said, flicking his head in the direction of the docking bay. "The sooner we have fuel for the vehicles, the sooner we can do some more scouting. Perhaps the residents of those towns could help us to explain this strange feeling."

John nodded silently and shouldered his rifle. They had a job to do, and it needed to take priority over this… goose chase.

* * *

Well, I hope that wasn't too much of a bore/wreck (scratches head nervously). At any rate, sorry that it took so long. Should be able to update as normal next weekend.

As always, feedback of any kind it welcomed with open arms, be it an idea, constructive criticism (can never have too much of that) or even flames, for they shall be used to keep me toasty when my dorm's heating unit fails again.

Hope to have an update for you soon. Until then, stay safe, and good luck in life.

* * *


	4. Chapter Three First Encounters

Chapter Three--First Encounter of the Third Kind

Well, sorry about the delay folks, but its finals season up where I'm at, so things are going a little more slowly than usual. Hopefully, once there done with, the updates will become more regular.

As always, my heartfelt thanks to those who take the time to read this story, and to those of you who have reviewed, I hope that I have answered your questions properly.

Lawyers- see previous disclaimers.

That said, here's the third chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Three--First Encounter of the Third Kind**

* * *

Bruenor sighed to himself and hugged his cloak just a little tighter around his body. Dawn was approaching quickly enough. He sat with his back to the merry fire that was crackling in the center of the camp. Around them was the evidence, what little there was, of the golem's activities. By now, it had been reduced to boot prints in the snow and scattered rocks with the occasional piece of charred yeti fur. The blood was gone, consumed by predators looking to squeeze a few extra nutrients out of the snow. The Dwarf king reached behind him and grabbed the poker he had over the fire. On it was a small bit of jerky that he'd been warming back up.

He bit into the smoked meat with relish. The meat was tough and dry, but it made for excellent taste. He would have to thank Rumblebelly for it. If there was one thing that overweight Halfling could do right, it was cook.

He kept his eyes roaming over the surroundings, his axe and shield close to his side. There was some rustling from behind him, and he turned to see Wulfgar getting up out of his tent. Bruenor nodded to the young plainsman, and motioned for him to have a seat. Aegis-Fang gripped loosely in his hand, Wulfgar did so.

"Morning to you, Bruenor," he said, and then motioned to the jerky. "Got any of that to split?"

"Sure, lad." The Dwarf ripped the hunk of meat in half. "Think we'll find it today?" He pointed out towards the mountains and the rocky peaks.

"Never know," Wulfgar shrugged. "We might, we might not. Rognar said it headed north east from here, though, back towards where the fireball came down. There's only so far it could be."

"Rather strange behavior from a golem though, don't you think?" Bruenor reached for a canteen and took a swig of Dwarven ale, just enough to warm his insides, as his water was still thawing out from the previous night. "I mean, what could it want with a deer and a Yeti's body?"

"The ways of wizards will always be a mystery to me, old friend," The human shook his head. "The deer I could understand. Wizards must eat too, and perhaps there was nothing about to threaten its master, so it was sent off to hunt. The Yeti makes less sense, but their fur can be used as a shield against the cold."

"I suppose," Bruenor mumbled. There was still something about this that didn't make sense, like how come a wizard powerful enough to make something like that didn't just conjure up his own food and use that to feast upon, rather than risk damage to such a valuable piece of work.

Of course, given the destruction that it appeared to be capable of, the term "risk" was a loose one, very much subject to interpretation.

He supposed that they would find out soon enough.

* * *

The Dwarf king and his friends were not the only ones searching for clues to the newest mystery of Faerun, though. Some miles away from them, steadily closing in on where the phenomenon had been seen, was a cloaked figure. It would have been difficult to tell anything about the person at first glance, aside form the fact that it was about five and a half feet tall, and clad in a combination of white and gray leather equipment. A long cloak, white on one side, gray on the other, flowed behind it. It appeared to be human, but there was something different about it steps, like it was unnaturally graceful. It paused for a moment and moved towards a hill a few hundred meters away.

Upon reaching the top of it, the figure reached into its belt, and drew out a telescope. Eyes that shone a faint red were visible for a moment, before it stared down the length of the device. It gasped a moment later, the tone of voice revealing it as a female.

"Hells…" she breathed.

Before her eyes, faintly visible in the distance, was a massive scar across the landscape, like some God had come down and extracted vengeance upon the land for an offense. But what had caused it? The canyon seemed to widen out towards the end, similar to the end of a sewing needle, but she could not see what was inside of it.

She'd just have to get closer. She had a mission to complete after all.

Plus, where there were mighty magicks, one could usually expect to find mighty treasure.

* * *

"Never seen anything like this before," Bruenor muttered to himself.

"Nor I," Wulfgar knelt down and placed his fore and middle fingers into the tracks before them. "They are similar to a wagon's, but these indentations…" He pointed to the depressions left in the center and edges of the marks

"Like someone worked the wheels so they could grip better," Alicia muttered, moving further back into her robe. The chill was clearly starting to get to her. "Curious though, where are the animal tracks? What was pulling it?"

Everyone remained silent. They had no effective answer for that, aside from magic. Still, this was a golem, the chance of it using arcane equipment were pretty high, given that it already carried a wand.

"Well, on the bright side, it should be pretty easy to track our quarry now. Just follow the trail o' breadcrumbs back to where they come from." Bruenor chuckled, rubbing some snow from his beard. "Weapons out and at the ready, just in case we bump into this thing and it's not friendly."

Olthick and Mortar nodded in unison, and readied war hammer and sword respectively. Then they were off again, hot in pursuit of the creature. With any luck, they would be able to reach its location before nightfall.

* * *

"Tracking additional movement," Cortana said over the commline, "this one's bigger--a small group."

John quietly acknowledged her as he welded another pipe onto its mountings. It wasn't very big, only about six inches around, but it would do for now. In the distance, he could see the Dawn's crater. Their timing had been good so far, more than two hundred meters of the pipeline was completed, thanks to the large amounts of now unnecessary piping that they were cannibalizing. Of course, planning on how to get here had been a little difficult. Cortana had had the best solution though, and it had been decided that the pipeline would empty into a reservoir that had been constructed from a few prefab living quarters, and then could be carried back by vehicle or manpower to the small refinery they had onboard. Somewhat inefficient, but it beat the hell out of having to drill through the Dawn's three meters of Titanium-A armor plating just to get inside.

"What about the single ping we had earlier?" Johnson asked. "How close are these new ones to it, and what's going on?"

"The newer group is closing faster on our location, probably exercising less caution or stealth. As for distance, there's about half a kilometer between the two, and given the timing difference, and direction of arrival, I don't think they're working together." Cortana said. "I've got a UAV almost on top of them now, feedback should be obtainable in just a few seconds."

John thought about the information he was being given. Two groups were currently aware of the location of them and the ship. It was to be expected of course, considering the commotion that they'd probably made on the way down. He also pondered other possibilities, like if the two groups did not like each other. That might explain why the lone ping was trying to stay away from the others.

"Feedback acquired, sending visual package."

As soon as Cortana's voice died away, an image appeared in the upper left corner of the Spartan's helmet, painted onto his visor. The UAV was about three hundred meters off the ground, its camera zooming in to where it could see the details about the individual groups. It focused on the individual first, which the Master Chief believed to be a scout. He couldn't make out any distinguishing features about the individual, aside from the fact that its movements were measured and cautious, slipping between one rocky crag and the next, trying to keep from moving out in the open as much as possible. Someone who didn't want to be detected.

The drone zoomed out after a few seconds, and flew over to the other group. For a brief second, the cyborg stopped his welding, and so did Johnson.

What they saw had to be one of the weirdest assortments of people in the history of their race. There was one man, obviously of the same stock as the young hunter that John had encountered a few days ago, but the others were somewhat out of place. A woman clad only in some furs and raven colored robe, and then… three very short people.

Very short people, who seemed to be armored out of the wazoo, as Sam would have said, were he still alive. There were also a number of weapons on them.

"Cortana?" he asked.

"Scanning… biometrical and physical analysis indicates that these things are similar to humans, but not the same. Muscle density's off, and their internal body temperature's higher, especially around the eyes. It's like they've got more blood flowing to them. I'd wager they have good night vision."

"What about the scout?" the Spartan put his curiosity aside for a moment, and went back to welding.

"I'm… I'm not sure." Was the reply over the radio.

John gave no outward sign of acknowledgement, indeed, any outsider would have thought he didn't hear her. Inside of his helmet, as he finished welding the seal, he raised an eyebrow. "Care to elaborate on that?"

"Well, it's got a humanoid build, as you might imagine, and it's a mammal, definitely got a bit of human biology… but aside from that…" she sighed, and he could imagine her holographic form rubbing her forehead. "The life form has a tail, and what appears to be a pair of vestigial horns, it's also apparently a female."

"Can you show me?" He asked, moving on to the next pipe. Johnson kept working too, but the Spartan could tell that the sergeant was somewhat distracted by all this.

A rough diagram of the scout appeared on his visor. Not much that he could see that made it different from humans, but the tail was there. It looked like it was about two and a half feet long, and judging by the number of bones the X-ray scans had given it, apparently semi-prehensile. The Spartan didn't know what else to make of it, but he logged it away in the back of his mind.

"Looks like they're closing in on each other. The solo trooper seems to be aware of the other group's presence, and is actively attempting to evade them, but the other gang isn't aware of her yet." Cortana said. "This could be trouble, Chief."

"I agree," Commander Keyes said from the bridge, where she was currently trying to assess the best means of accessing the uranium deposits that were nearby. "Chief, take a Mongoose and head out there, see if you can make a first contact, and if you have to, mitigate between the two. Johnson, you go with him. I want both of you armed, just in case."

"Yes ma'am," the Spartan said, placing down his torch and turning to the Sangehili working a little ways away from them. "Orna, think you can hold down the fort here?"

"It would be my honor, Spartan," the Elite spread his upper mandibles in a smile.

"I'd move quickly, Chief," Cortana said. "The Drone's showing that the larger group is stopping, and turning right towards the scout. I don't know how they did it, but I think they're on to her."

By the time the construct had finished, Johnson and the cyborg were already tearing down the landing bay. Within seconds they had armed themselves up, and were heading out.

* * *

"I can sense something near," Alicia said, pausing suddenly in her steps.

"Our quarry?" Bruenor asked, his hand tightening its grip on his mithril axe. The Dwarf king began to listen for any sign of the approaching creature.

"No, this is something else… it's making my skin crawl just a bit," the woman paused and placed a hand to her temple. "I sense the taint of the lower planes… faint, but there."

"Demonic or devilish?" Wulfgar asked. His hands were instantly at his war hammer. He remembered all too well Drizzt's tale of his battle with Errtu. Creatures of that nature would be difficult to defeat, to say the least. The Ten Towns had considered the Balor a far greater threat than the rest of Kessel's army combined, despite the fact that he was one and the rest of the Orcs, goblins, and giants had numbered in the thousands.

"Devilish, by the feeling," the mage looked out towards the mountain in the distance. "It's coming from the base of that peak."

"Be ready for it," the Dwarf king growled, drawing its weapon. "If that golem's a rogue instrument, we don't want the fiend getting its hands on it, 'cause there's no telling what it might do, and if their allies, well, we might as well face them down now."

"I do not think we face a full devil," Alicia shook her head as they started off towards the peak. "The sensation I get is too subtle for that. I suspect that we are dealing with a creature of the Nine Hells, but the blood feels like it's been weakened or diluted."

"Half breed, possibly," Bruenor muttered, before he motioned the party onward.

It took them only a few minutes to arrive at the base of the peak. Bruenor raised his mithril shield, the symbol of his clan, a foaming ale-mug, stood out emblazoned upon it, its golden light shinning up towards the peak, as if daring the creature to show itself. He started to move up the rocks, his gait surprisingly nimble for one so heavily armored. It was the result of more than a century of living in, under and upon the rocks of this end of the world. He knew the stone as one might know his brother, or his son, and could tell at the merest glance which routes were safe and which ones hazardous. The Dwarf's keen eyes were staring around at the rocky crags before him. He could sense it too, now. The old warrior's instincts were rising up inside of him, and he growled as he waited for his prey.

He saw a flick of motion off to one side, and heard a pebble fall, but he simply smiled. Far too obvious—a diversion like that—at least to the likes of him. He was tempted to call out a boast, but instead worked his way around in the opposite direction of the one where the sound came from. He imagined the frustration of his quarry as he neared, any moment now, it was going to have to bolt. He climbed up on top of a rock and looked at the area before him. Stones and snow patches lay out before him, but no sign of the creature.

Then an idea occurred to him, and he started to stare at the snow patches and the rocks a little more carefully. His eyes spent a minute or two roaming over them, until he noticed one, about twenty feet away that was moving faintly. So, this half-breed was cleverer than he had given it credit for. It came prepared.

"Game's over, hellspawn, I can see you hiding under that cloak," he growled. Stepping forward and brandishing his weapons.

He was amazed by what happened next. The "snow patch" exploded upwards, revealing a thinly built individual. Bruenor caught a glimpse of a dark gray tunic, and on the center of it, what appeared to be the faint outline of an eye. He also spotted two blades, one long and one short, hanging from its—her-- waist.

She didn't stick around to chat, whoever she was. Instead, she bolted upwards, gracefully springing from rock to rock and flanking around the Dwarf king. He lunged outward with the flat side of his axe, not wanting to permanently harm her until he could get some answers. The half-breed, however, just jumped up along the face of a rock, ran along its surface for a few feet, and leapt again, landing on top of another bolder before springing down the sides of the mountain base.

"Head's up!" Bruenor cried. "Coming down the northern slope!"

Wulfgar and the Dwarven bodyguards were standing at the bottom, waiting for her, but she simply jumped over their reach, came down behind them, rolled, and took off running like the Abyss was on her heals.

She did not get far, though. Alicia was hastily casting a spell, and before the half-breed had made it more than twenty meters, she suddenly froze in mid stride, suspended helplessly.

"Nice trick," Wulfgar said as he came up next to her, "how long will that hold?"

"Against a creature with Baazettu blood in it? I'm not sure. Best secure whatever information you need quickly." The mage shrugged.

"First let's find out who our guest is," Bruenor grumbled as he made his way down the rocks and marched up besides the girl. Wulfgar yanked the hood back and took a step away, making a symbol to Tempus while he was at it.

The creature was indeed a half breed, a Tiefling to be precise. Not as powerful or as cunning as a pure half devil, but descended from one nonetheless. She looked to be in her early twenties, the Dwarf reckoned, and had a close cropped mane of fiery hair, complete with the typical horns of her kind, and a slight series of markings just below her hairline. The pointed ears and red eyes completed the picture, and marked her for what she was. Still, the Dwarf had to admit that she'd been clever. The hood would hide her horns and most of her face, and her tail could also be concealed if she was careful enough.

"Looks like we've found ourselves a rogue," Bruenor rubbed his chin, looking up at the young woman. "What's your name girl, and your business here?"

"I could ask you the same," she growled. There was a slight pitch to her tone that made it hard to take her seriously, but Bruenor could see fires smoldering in her eyes.

"That is true, but we happen to have a bit of a numbers advantage over you," Alicia said, drawing up close, "and I just happen to have some holy water on me. We could loosen your tongue in a different manner, if you want."

"I don't think that'll be necessary, Mage," Bruenor looked towards the human and shook his head. "I'd wager you're probably here for the same reason we are." He leaned in closer to the suspended hellspawn, and smirked. "Tell me, girl, where did you get that tunic?"

"What's it to you?" She glared down at him, her eyes speaking with the desire to get out of this situation and turn the tables on him.

In her mind, she was struggling not to panic. This was bringing back some very unpleasant memories.

"Because that happens to be a tunic marked with the symbol of Neverwinter, and the means by which you came by it will determine whether or not I let you go, or send you back where you came from." He brandished his axe. Neverwinter was a large metropolis about four hundred miles to the south, one of his clan's primary trading partners.

"All I can say is that I've come by it fairly and within the bounds of the law." She could feel her fingers starting to get some movement to them again. That was good, she'd break out of this soon, just needed another minute.

"Your name?" Bruenor asked, arching an eyebrow. "You see, I happen to have friends in high places at that city, and ways that I can check on you. I'm certain Lord Nasher doesn't have many of your kind under his employ, he makes a habit of not dealing with Infernals and their ilk."

"I've already said all I'm going to say," she growled.

"I'm not going to ask politely again, girl. Your name?" Bruenor crossed his arms over his barreled chest.

She growled but hung her head. "Neeshka," she muttered.

Alicia arched her eyebrow, while Mortar cocked his head to the side. "Bless you," he said.

The Tiefling glared in his direction, clearly not amused. Still, she could feel the spell starting to weaken. Just a few more seconds.

However, before she could try to force the spell to release its grip on her, she heard something. It was a high pitched noise that sounded like a combination of a growl and a whine. Her hellish lineage had blessed her with a few things, good eyesight among them, and she saw it before the others." It came up over a hill about half a mile away. It was clearly some kind of machine, moving fast on four strange wheels that gripped the ground as no wheel rightly should have. She could see two things on its back, but couldn't make them out at this distance.

As it quickly moved in, though, she saw clearly enough what they carried. Neeshka took a deep breath and tried to blink a few times to make certain what she was seeing was correct. The two objects that she saw were soldiers—living or not, she did not know—and though she couldn't quite make out the nature of the tubular devices that they had strapped to their armor, she could tell quite clearly that they were weapons of some sort.

They pulled up to where they were only a hundred or so feet off, and both dismounted. Neeshka felt the spell release her, and nearly stumbled to the ground. The others were not paying attention to her, and she knew that she could easily make a break for it. However, that small part of her mind that had kept her alive for all the years of living on Neverwinter's streets and its back alleys told her to wait. The solders' craft, for one thing, could move far faster than she could run. She might get a chance to use one of her scrolls to get back home, but Lord Nasher would not be pleased to get a report as incomplete as what she had now. He was already being extremely lenient with her, and she had no desire to get chucked into an eight by ten cell for the next few decades.

The green one, which she could simply not believe the size of, moved a few steps ahead of its black armored comrade. The gold plated face moved back and forth over them, and she felt eyes that she could not see boring into her, reading her. At last, the soldier pointed towards the Barbarian of the group, and spoke a series of words that the Tiefling found that she could not understand.

The group looked around at each other, and the big one shrugged before responding.

"I am sorry, I do not understand what you are saying." He shook his head as he spoke to try and convey the meaning.

The soldier paused, cocked its head to one side, and then said something else. Neeshka couldn't make it out, but it clearly sounded like it was a different language, harsher, more robust. All it got him was a look from the Barbarian. Another language after that, and then another, and another. The black armored one joined in as well, but still nothing came of it. She wondered what in the world was going on here. What kind of thing would not know Common in this day and age? It was clearly smart enough to know several languages, and none of them sounded like curses, or any arcane or infernal language that she knew of, for that matter.

Neeshka carefully reached down to her pouch to pull out a ring that the Many Starred Cloaks had given her, one that was supposed to aid in the understanding of languages. Before her hand had moved more than two inches, though, the soldier reacted. It was a green blur as it reached down to the black object on its legs, yanked it off, and had it pointed straight at her. All of it had taken a fraction of an instant, and she had scarcely even seen it move.

Again it spoke, and again she could not make out a single word, but the faint gesturing of its head was indication enough for the girl. She pulled her hand back away from the pouch, and then shifted it to where the soldier could see it better.

"Look," she said in a soft, slow tone. "I know you can't understand me, but I'm not getting anything dangerous." She tried to open it again. The weapon was raised up a little higher, but she sensed that it would not attack unless attacked first. It was probably just lost and confused.

She opened up the pouch, searched around for the ring, felt it, and placed it on her finger. "Can you understand me?" she asked, hoping that she might get a better reaction out of it.

The black armored one said something, and to her frustration, Neeshka found that she couldn't make out a word of what was being said.

"That a ring of translation or something?" the Dwarf asked.

"Yep," she nodded to him. "Supposed to work on any language born of Faerun, the hells, or the heavens."

"So what does that make this thing's language?" the Barbarian gave her a weird look.

"Rather obviously, 'none of the above,'" she rolled her eyes at his inability to get her initial meaning. "Whatever, or wherever, this thing is from, it's nowhere around here."

* * *

The Master Chief for his part, was equally baffled. What was so important about that ring? The inability to communicate was equally irritating. He'd tried English, French, German, Chinese, Russian, and Spanish with these people, while Johnson had chipped in with a few contributions of his own, including, of all things, Latin and some surprisingly well toned Old English. Nothing seemed to be working.

"Have you managed to analyze anything?" John muttered, shutting of his external speakers.

"The language they're using bares some resemblance to an old Scandinavian dialect, or something similar. It's not much, but give me a moment and I can try to make some connections," Cortana said.

Then he heard a beeping noise. The UAV was attracting additional movement.

"Cortana?" The Spartan asked.

"Give me a second, moving the drone into position."

The Spartan kept one eye on the native group before him, while the other one drifted up to watch the feed from the UAV. They crossed the snow and ice covered landscape rapidly, and before long, was zooming in on a large group of objects. He couldn't make out much at the range that the drone was at, just that they were large, fast, and the contrast between hot and cold objects seemed to indicate that they were well armed.

They were also headed for the Dawn, though it looked like they were going to have to pass by here first.

"My, aren't we popular these days." Cortana seemed amused.

The Master Chief said nothing, but the drone was now close enough that he could start to make out features on the new group. Were he not so used to seeing strange things and places, he might have been alarmed by what he saw. The drone switched back over to the visible spectrum, and he did arch an eyebrow. The new group was composed of gray skinned, vaguely humanoid creatures, heavily armed with wicked looking axes and spears. Crude plate armor covered most of their torsos, but their arms were bare. Their faces had a look to them that resembled a cross between a boar and an ape, augmented by the tusks sticking out of their lower jaws.

And they were riding wolves.

Very, very big wolves.

"This place keeps getting weirder by the day! First abominable snowmen, then short guys, a girl with a tail and horns sticking out of her head, and now this?" Johnson sighed in disbelief. "Orders, Chief? They don't look particularly friendly."

"Take up a sniping position among the rocks. They don't look friendly to me either, but assume nothing. They may just be a patrol or something, coming to check on the hole we made in the ground." The Spartan moved closer to the rocks, and left himself partially exposed so that the humanoids would see him, but that he could still duck back and return fire in quick order if they proved to be hostile. He had to admit though, that was awfully big for a patrol. Still, better safe than sorry.

Bruenor scratched at the side of his head as he saw the black armored golem suddenly reach up behind it and pull the enormous device off its back. It looked almost like an odd shaped wizard's staff that ended like the butt end of a crossbow. It quickly put the other such device that it held (a smaller object with a heavy, well defined forward grip, and a pair of rods running down its length) away. Then it took off, rushing up the slope of the rocks, moving in a manner of a being that was well trained in such actions and was in good physical condition. Once it reached a large overhang, it lay down flat, and from his vantage point, the Dwarf king could see little. The green one did the same, returning the shorter, wand like device to its hip and reaching for the larger one on its back.

"You think they know something we don't?" Wulfgar asked, leaning down close to his mentor.

"I don't know." The Dwarf shrugged. "Let's head up and get a better look," he said, gesturing to where the black one had gone.

Bruenor and his two body guards were up quickly enough, with Neeshka coming up right on their heels. Wulfgar and Alicia however, took more time, being less sure of the rocks. Still, it took no more than a few minutes for them to get up there.

Neeshka frowned as she stared around at the landscape. She could see nothing out of the ordinary. But the two soldiers were so alert, like they knew that something was coming.

The black one grumbled something to her, staring over at the group. She couldn't tell what it had said, but it sounded rather irritated. She looked at the weapon that it held, the massive tube at the end, flared out slightly, the way that the soldier was orienting it and had braced it against the ground.

She realized that whatever was coming was off that direction, and that even these things, likely so far from their home that it wasn't even funny, believed it a possible threat did not bode well with her.

She took out her telescope again, and scanned the horizon. Even from this height, it took her a little while to see what was coming their way. It was hard to make out at first, but as the blob drew closer she started to make out individuals among it, and then quickly felt dread pool in her stomach. She turned to look down at the Dwarf leader.  
"Orcs," she hissed.

"What? How many?" he sputtered, going red in the face.

"Can't quite tell, let's just say 'lots.' And all of them are mounted," she said.

Bruenor frowned. The Dire Wolves upon which they were likely riding could not only match the pace of a warhorse, but were excellent climbers as well. This place wouldn't make for a good defense, not with their backs to the wall. Running was out of the question, too. Or rather, at least trying to flee outright.

The Dwarf king looked around, trying to find someway to change the odds. Then he spotted it. Another outcropping of rock, about two thousand feet away. It was narrower, would require that the Orcs and their wolves come at them no more than a few at the time. The question is, would they be able to get that far, climb the rocks, and get set up before their foes were upon them? Well, there was only one way to find out.

"To that ledge, come on!" he shouted, gesturing to the location.

The others fell in beside him, even the Tiefling, who pulled out a short bow as they descended the rocks.

"Up, or down, make up your minds!" Alicia said as she nearly stumbled down one of the boulders.

As he hit the snow, Bruenor ran for all he could muster from his little legs. If they got caught in the open like this, by mounted opposition, they were done for.

"Something's got them spooked," John muttered to himself, double-checking the sights and scope on his BR-55. "Think they know something we don't?"

"The girl with the tail yanked out a telescope and started staring off where those Hell's Angels wannabees are coming from," Johnson replied. "Can't say that I'm too upset they're gone, though. They were blowing my cover."

The Master Chief had a sinking feeling that this was going to end in a shootout. From what he could gather, they were dealing with two very hostile groups here, and the ones that he had just met were badly outmatched if that were the case. He zoomed in on them to track their progress, and noticed where they were headed. They were attempting to set up a secure, defensible perimeter apparently. The Spartan cocked his head, and then looked back over towards the approaching group of humanoids.

They were too close. The fleeing group would never make it, not with those small ones slowing them down.

The milliseconds began to tick by, and the Spartan's mind raced, weighing potential actions, reactions, causes and effects. Eventually, his mind settled on the one option that he knew would be the ultimate choice: to act, or not to act.

"Sierra-117 to Dawn, requesting air support. Incoming fourth party appears hostile," the Spartan said.

"Are you sure, Chief?" it was Keyes. "I don't want to start a war if we can help it."

"Yes ma'am, second and third parties have banded together, despite their apparent dislike for each other, and are currently breaking for better cover. Suspect high probability of violent outcome." He saw the first one of the riders come up over a small ridge. He spotted the moving group immediately, raised his peculiar, double headed axe, and gave out a loud roar.

"Roger that." The commline crackled for a moment. "Arbiter, meet me in the Pelican bay, the Chief's calling in the cavalry."

"Understood, commander," the Elite replied. "I'll be there in a minute."

The Chief watched as the humanoids drew closer to the fleeing group, and made his decision. "Johnson, weapons free."

Johnson's sign of acknowledgement was the unique double shockwave of the S02M Oracle that he held. Through the scope of his battle rifle, the cyborg watched as one of the beings just seemed to fly apart, dissolving into a rapidly expanding mist of blood, bones, and flesh. Another half second passed, and they were inside of six hundred meters, the maximum range of a BR-55. He squeezed the trigger, and felt the faint kick of the rifle against his armored shoulder. The ammo counter in his upper left HUD decreased by one and a moment later, the one he'd sighted up coughed up black colored blood and stared stupidly down at itself, no doubt curious as to where the twelve inch wide hole in its chest had come from. The Spartan wondered if it had even felt the ten-millimeter, depleted uranium round as it passed through.

It slumped off its mount, but not before two more of its brothers had joined it in death. The Spartan did not relent, and fired again and again, targeting both the riders and their mounts. But there were a lot of them—he counted over two hundred, easily—and while they were confused by the sudden and unexpected flank attack, they did not break, but kept on charging towards the group out on the ice covered tundra. Was it possible that they were unaware that he and Johnson were the ones killing them?

Up above, the ODST fired again, catching two of the creatures dead-on as they were lining up. Both of them dissolved into blood clouds as the fourteen and a half millimeter slug tore through them and kept going. Then his battle rifle clicked empty. John reached down and released the empty magazine with his right thumb, while his left had had already grabbed a fresh one. A fraction of a second later, he slammed it into the rifle, cycled a round into the chamber, and fired a double tap. It hit one of the wolves square in its center mass, and blew the beast wide open. It went down in a tumble, flipping over and spreading its guts and blood over the snowy ground like the stroke of an artist's paintbrush.

But there were too many, and the Spartan simply couldn't kill them fast enough to stop them from making it to the other group. He needed an autocannon, or something similar.

Johnson fired twice in rapid succession, splattering a large humanoid and its mount. "Empty! Reloading."

The Chief slipped his third magazine into the rifle, and noticed that they had finally managed to get some of the humanoids to branch off towards where he and Johnson were. But the number was small, dealt with easily enough. "Forget them," he growled, "focus on the main body."

As before, Johnson's only response was the loud booming of his sniper rifle.

Neeshka looked to see the horde come charging towards them. They weren't going to make it. Frowning grimly to herself, she nocked an arrow in her bow, drew it back, and fired into the advancing mass of Orcs. The shot was well aimed despite the fact that she was running, and sank deep into the arm of one of the lead chargers. It snarled, and she could see it reach up and tear the arrow out. Then there was a flash of red from their ranks, and one of the Orcs on the flanking edges of the wave just… disintegrated. A pair of loud booms reached her sensitive ears a moment later, causing her to wince.

She instinctively looked back to where they had left the other two soldiers. She couldn't figure out why in the world they weren't running. Granted, they weren't from this neck of the woods, but just about every plane of existence knew of Orcs and what they meant.

She couldn't make out the details, but as the Tiefling fired again, more Orcs started to fall to some invisible force. They ignored it, though, and kept coming. She fired twice more into their ranks as they vied to see who would be the first to spill blood. One she caught in the throat, the other shot went low, into the shoulder of the dire wolf. The beast howled in pain, but kept coming regardless, its eyes seeming to scream murder for her.

The Orcs were within a hundred paces of them as they reached the base of the outcropping. The wizard starting going up first while the rest covered her, Bruenor ordering everyone into a defensive circle that would back up the mountain. As soon as she got up, Alicia started chanting the words to a spell, though what kind Neeshka could not exactly tell. She fired twice more, and then slung her bow and drew her blades.

The large Barbarian gave out a roar and sent his warhammer flying end over end. The Orc that was closest took it straight in the chest, and was blasted right back into the one behind him. The still living rider and mount went down in a tangled heap to be trampled by the ones behind it. The mighty weapon reappeared in its owners hand just in time for him to smash in the chest of another wolf. As before, the dead mount went down, with its rider getting tangled up in the harness.

Bruenor leaped backwards as a wolf overextended itself, and countered with a furious cleave that split its skull straight in half. He raised his shield to ward the next series of attacks just as a fireball descended into the ranks of those behind them. The sphere exploded, setting all within thirty feet aflame and causing panic in Orc ranks as the wolves bucked about, trying to put themselves out, but only succeeded in throwing their riders or putting their fellows to fire as well.

Something was bothering Neeshka, though. Though the ranks pressed in around them, it was as if the Orcs were holding back, waiting for something. A spear came in towards her, and she narrowly dodged it, lashing out with her longsword taking the end of it off at it passed by. The rider's mount pressed in, and in a deftly quick move, she shoved her shorter weapon up to the hilt in its maw. The edge was sharp, honed by killing dwemores, and pierced the bone with ease. The blade poked out of the top of the brute's skull for a moment, before it fell to the ground.

Another one of those weird booms reached her ear, and several of the Orcs twitched about in their saddles, before they broke and headed for the other outcropping, where the two soldiers had been left.

A bolt of lightning struck through the ranks of their enemies, but still they did not waver, still they pressed the attack. The Tiefling was confused, her mind trying to figure out what was going on as best she could while still dodging blows and trying to keep the wolves at back. Orc war parties didn't come out to the middle of nowhere without reason, and if they were interested in the fireball, why this focus on them? Why not decide to just leave them be and head for the prize?

The thought was derailed as she had to duck an axe blow aimed at separating her head from her shoulders. She gutted the Orc for its trouble, leaping forward and stabbing her shorter blade right into its heart, parrying another strike with its longer twin.

Then she saw one of their ranks, larger than the rest, rise up. Its skin was paler in hue, its muscles more knotted… a half ogre. It raised its double bladed axe high and let out a war cry. The Tiefling narrowed her crimson eyes, while her tail twitched in agitation. It lowered the blade, pointed straight at Bruenor and roared again. This time, though, the roar was cut off in mid cry. A curious blue object, burning as if on fire, landed squarely in its open mouth. There was a moment of confusion from all parties, and then with a high pitched beep, it exploded.

The Tiefling's world turned white, and her eyes burned from the flash. Whatever just happened did sow confusion into the ranks of the opposition though, as they started whirling about just in time to watch another object drop in among them. This one was brown, and resembled a large pine cone.

The HP-9 frag grenade detonated a half second later, turning every Orc and wolf within ten meters of it into something more commonly associated with a slaughterhouse. Blinking away the lights in her eyes, the Tiefling found the source of the commotion.

* * *

The Spartan had eighteen shots left, and then his rifle was dry. There were simply too many to handle from here, and it was clear to him that there was no way for the group to survive until Keyes arrived with a Pelican, not unless a distraction was provided.

He noticed something strange with the robed girl's hands, and suddenly a blast of fire shot out from it and detonated. The Spartan froze for a millisecond, and then shook it off. There would be time for questions later, provided that they all made it through this, and he figured out how to talk with them.

"Johnson!" he barked, ripping off his SMG and the few clips he was carrying for it, before tossing them up to the ODST.

The Helljumper got what the Chief wanted, and pulled the P90 off of his back, along with a few boxes of shells. Both were lobbed down to the Spartan, who hastily secured the ammo around his abdomen, and took off towards the battle.

Johnson kept up the pressure, firing off his sniper rifle and butchering more of the strange humanoids.

The Master Chief blitzed past the group that had broken off towards their position, catching all of the brutes by surprise as they wheeled their mounts around, no doubt thinking to try and squash him between the rest of the force and themselves. The meters between them closed in a blur. Five hundred… four… three… two hundred… one hundred. He could see a large brute rising up from the pack, bigger than its fellows, possibly a leader. It raised a chilling war call and brandished its weapon.

John saw an opportunity. He reached for his grenade bandolier, and yanked out a plasma grenade. One push of the arming button, and the device burst into blue fire. The cyborg reared back and threw the device like a baseball. He'd been aiming for its face, but the creature opened its mouth to scream again, and the grenade found the invitation well enough. Were the situation not so serious, the Spartan might have laughed.

The small grenade detonated a moment later, unleashing hell. Everything within five meters of the device was instantly vaporized, with many further out howling and burning in the wake of the intense heat. Still others were scorched and found their lungs seared by the steam blast that came from the snow and ice being heated so quickly. Water did expand roughly a thousand times upon conversion from liquid to gas, after all.

He primed a frag grenade, and tossed it as well, hoping to stir up more confusion among his foes.

It worked, taking the attention of several of them away from the besieged group and putting it on himself.

He was fifty meters away, well inside of the lethal range of the P90. He leveled the weapon, sighted up the closest one, and fired. The scattergun boomed, kicked, and sent a spray of supersonic uranium at the brute and its wolf. The rider dissolved into a cloud of bloody giblets, while the front part of the mount suffered a similar fate. Then he targeted the next closest, and fired.

Ten shots left.

He kept shooting, each blast taking down a rider and mount, but still they closed. They were a persistent bunch, he gave them that. Fanatical, almost. It reminded him a lot of the Covenant.

He fired off the last shell, and then lobbed a grenade. The explosion killed a good dozen, sending body parts and chunks of what the Spartan assumed were once organs splattering across the landscape. He ripped open the lid to one of his ammo canisters, and yanked open a handful of shells. He had to hurry, the ones from behind would be closing in right now. He could already see faint blips on his motion sensor. Three shells were loaded. Not enough to kill them all, and he didn't want to waste a grenade, or have to go hand to hand if he could help it. Six shells, they were too close.

A blast from Johnson came up from behind, ripping two of them to pieces and continuing into the ranks of the larger group. That left eight of them. The Spartan leveled his shotgun, and fired. The results were the same as always. Two more pairs fell in less than a second. Then he twisted and dove out of the way. One wolf anticipated this maneuver, and moved to intercept. What it had miscalculated, though, was the speed at which its foe would move. The cyborg was back on his feet in a flash, and caught the wolf around the throat as it came sailing in. Ducking beneath the clumsily made swing of its rider, he yanked his left arm out. The bones of the enormous canine snapped and broke under the force imparted on them, killing it instantly. He let go, and the momentum ensured that it sailed some distance away, rolling over and over again and crushing its rider in the process.

The brutes that wheeled about to face him were too slow, and presented perfect profile shots for him. They never even had time to scream.

Another boom from Johnson, and another group of them became so much fertilizer.

"That was the last round, Chief, I'm all out of long range death right now," Johnson growled. "I'm taking the Mongoose and moving into flanking position, I'll try strafing their lines."

"Commander, initial native parties are going to be overwhelmed soon," John said as another ball of flame flew from the hands of the robed girl. "ETA?"

"ETA is forty five, keep your head down, we're coming in hot and loud," Keyes responded.

"Advised, ma'am, friendlies in the combat zone," the Spartan lobbed a second plasma grenade into the midst of the brutes. It stuck to the back of one of the riders, who pawed around with it for a moment or two before the device went off. Blue hot fire leapt up, slaying dozens of them and causing more chaos. He suspected that at least two thirds of the initial force was lying in pools of their own blood, had been reduced to little more than that, or were currently floating around on the air currents. Still, they persisted.

There was a whine a few seconds later, Johnson tore up on the Mongoose, the SMG he was holding firing short, quick bursts into the ranks of the brutes. The caseless rounds tore great gapping holes in the creatures, and a solid dozen wheeled about to face the ODST. He could hear Johnson snort as he turned away and led them off on a chase, firing back over his shoulder as they cleared the distance.

Amongst the melee, Neeshka realized that they were getting help from the soldiers, but knew that it wasn't going to be enough. These Orcs were disturbing in their dedication to eradicating them, for what purpose she could only guess. She'd battled more than her fair share of the things, but had never heard of them being this ferocious, this mindlessly one-tracked in their determination to take out a target. They should have broken long ago, her mind kept insisting.

But, as she lopped the head off of a wolf that got too close, the rational part of her brain kept telling that little voice that some part of the game had changed, and not for the better.

"Tempos!" she heard the barbarian, Wulfgar, gasp. It was not from pain, but from surprise. He'd been able to retreat higher up into the rocks than she had, perhaps he had seen something that she hadn't.

Another blast ripped through the Orcish ranks, and more booms, these ones lower and more robust, came from where the green armored one fought, somewhere she could no longer see due to the pressing throng. The blasts were getting closer though, and more and more of the riders had to turn to engage the threat that it represented. She snarled and deftly leaped over the swing of a pole axe, coming down and lopping off the head of the weapon with her longsword, driving her shorter one into the neck of its mount. The Dire Wolf went down with a yelp.

To her side, Bruenor took a slash across the face, just above the cheek guards of his helmet. The blow was light and shallow, but it did send a great deal of blood spilling down his face, which only seemed to add to his ferocity.

It was bound to happen eventually, she supposed. One too many attackers managed to coordinate on her as she was trying to step back, further up the hill. A hole opened up in her guard and a Dire Wolf took advantage of it. It lunged forward, and she felt its teeth close around her right arm. It punctured her tunic, and her leather armor, and yanked hard to the left and right.

Pain and agony surged through her, and she barely managed to bite back a scream as her longsword fell from nerveless hands. She brought its shorter twin up, though, and stabbed it straight through the head.

It let go of her at once, and she fell to the ground. Groggy with pain, she barely managed to dodge a strike meant to cleave her head in half. Instead, it bit deep into her side.

So, this was how it ended…

She faintly heard blasts of the soldier's strange weapon, and noticed that one of the Dwarfs, the one closest to her, also went down as a spear caught him in the shoulder, punching clean through it and out the other side. Something heavy landed in front of her, blocking out the sun. It was the soldier. The weapon it held boomed, and kicked backwards, and the Orc nearest to him erupted into a mass of gore and fragmented plate armor. Its mount lashed out, and only a blur registered the soldier's movement. The wolf slumped to the ground at the same time that the weapon went off again, she faintly noticed that a few small bits of its head were left, the rest of it missing somewhere, and that the solder's boot was now stained red and gray.

An Orc stabbed at him with a spear and others jumped in, trying to bury him under their numbers. Their nightmarish foe simply blurred to one side, ripped the spear from the Orc's grasp, shoved it back into him with enough force to send the beast flying into the rider the next rank back. The Dire Wolf got a quick death as well, its skull smashed into pulp by the butt of the strange weapon.

Something warm touched her cheek, and she realized that it was her own blood. She was surprised that she hadn't died yet. Blood loss like this was supposed to kill quickly, right?

An earth shattering roar suddenly filled the Tiefling's sensitive ears, so that even as she lay in a pool of her own life, she wanted to curl up. For a second she feared that her nightmares were coming true, and that her heritage had damned her to the Hells. She heard the Orcs screaming, finally panicking and breaking, and wished that she knew what had caused it. Something blotted out the sun, flying by, and more loud roars, these ones higher in pitch, reached her.

The Master Chief swore as he spared a glance to the wounded girl beneath him. Those wounds were fatal if not treated. "Cortana, we've got at least one critically wounded trooper here!" he barked as he reloaded his shotgun, only managing to slide three shells into place before he was forced to dodge a series of spear thrusts, axe swipes, and lunging bites from the wolves. They were more cautious now, though, wary of him, especially given the viciousness of his counter attacks.

He kicked out, catching one wolf between the lower jaw, crushing its skull and flipping it over, much to the irritation and pain of its rider.

Graced by Spartan Time, he got plenty of satisfaction out of what came next. There was no sound to warn of its approach, no flash to give heed to it. The creatures all along their encircling ranks, suddenly began to splatter and fly apart. He even saw a brief glimpse of what was responsible for it, a glorious little piece of uranium, seventy millimeters wide, zipping past at hypersonic speeds.

That did cause them to panic. They broke ranks, and he took full advantage of it, reloading in a flash and gunning them down with impunity. In slow motion, he saw one of them gesture to the sky and bark out something in a harsh tongue that grated on his ears. The Pelican zoomed overhead a moment later, its back doors open.

Orna Fullsamee was there, manning a thirty millimeter gattling gun. The Sangehili opened fire, spraying death and chaos into what semblance of discipline they had left.

"Johnson, get back here now!" the Master Chief said, blasting another brute to pieces from thirty meters away.

"Already on my way back," the Helljumper announced.

Sure enough, he cleared a ridge a few seconds later. John couldn't help but notice that there was nothing behind him. He fired again, and the pellets of his shotgun cut another rider down and tore fist sized hunks of flesh out of its mount's flanks.

They were flanking around the Pelican, trying to get out of the way of Orna's murderous autocannon fire. The Elite, however, was not so easily evaded. In a flash, he had disconnected the weapon from its ammo feed mount, hooked it up to large, backpack like device, slipped that over his shoulders and then took the weapon off its tripod mounting. He hopped out of the back of the drop ship, twisting and firing off shots in short bursts. The fist sized rounds were massacring what was left of the attack force.

Keyes was backing the Pelican up and lining it up with the ground. Johnson was in first, racing up the short plank with the Mongoose, before hopping off it and rushing back out towards John.

"Load up, evac, evac!" he shouted to the ones that could still stand, hoping they got the meanings, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb just in case.

They seemed to get the message clear enough, and went dashing off towards it.

John slung the shotgun over his shoulder and leaned down, carefully picking up the horned girl. She still groaned in pain and her eyes widened a bit. He jogged towards the Pelican and moved up the ramp, before setting her down on the padded bench and getting a better look of her wounds.

Outside, Orna still fired off into the distance, slaughtering all he could see.

"Biofoam!" The Spartan twisted to Johnson, who quickly produced a vial of the stuff. He shook it up, twisted the end to reveal the small needle and plunger, and squired the white substance into the gash along the girl's side. The self sealing medical foam went to work as soon as it touched blood, staunching the bleeding from there.

Her arm was another matter. It was mangled beyond all logical repair, and twitched weakly as the nerves died. Only tendons and a few stray bits of muscle connected it to the rest of her body. She would need a new one, provided she could survive long enough to make the four minute trip back to the Dawn, and the two minute run to medibay. And all of that was moot if they couldn't get more blood into her. She'd lost a lot.

"Cortana, think you can synthesize alien blood?" he asked.

"Depends, can you get me a sample?" her tone was neutral, though a faint trace of worry was detectible to those who knew her well.

"Hard not to."

"That bad?"

Chief didn't respond, merely reached into his supply pouch, pulled out a small tube always carried, and then made a dash up to the cockpit, just as Orna pilled into the back.

The Pelican rose into the air and shot off into the distance, leaving nothing but a bloodstained smear of earth behind it.

John moved into the cockpit, hardly sparing a glance at the other native behind him. Johnson and Orna were trying to keep the girl steady, and piling on emergency blankets to prevent shock from setting in.

The Master Chief took the vial, and inserted it into a slot in the Pelican's control console. It was a standard thing of late. Marines, ODSTs, and Spartans all had their DNA on file, capable of being withdrawn and used for anything from blood synthesizing to flash cloning of replacement organs and limbs.

UNSC civilians, however, did not have that luxury, and extracting wounded ones from combat zones had gotten dicey. With logistics strained by the war with the Covenant, adding everyone to the database was just unfeasible, so the UNSC went for the next best thing, a data port adaptation for their drop ships and transports. The blood would be inserted into the computer, then read by an A.I., who could read out the entire code in a matter of moments.

"Analyzing," Cortana muttered. "DNA scanned, synthesizing in progress. Anything else?"

"Start cloning a right arm, I don't think we can save the one she's got."

"Roger that," she paused for a half second. "She's lucky, and peculiar, you know. Her DNA is… well, disturbingly similar in nature to a human's, just a few genes that don't match up properly."

"Really?" The Chief cocked his head. "Hold that thought till we get her secure."

He moved back into the transport area, and looked at the others. All were sporting wounds, one of the smaller warriors a nasty stab through the shoulder, but a little biofoam would patch that up nicely. The horned girl was their priority at the moment.

"Come on trooper, stay awake!" Johnson growled, thumping her lightly upside the head. She hissed at him, barring canines far sharper than any human the Chief had seen before. Still, that was good. Anger was an excellent motivator for survival.

The minutes passed quickly, and as the Pelican landed he picked the girl up, bloodied blankets and all, and headed off for the medibay. Inwardly he sighed. His sixth day on this world, and already he'd kicked off a war.

* * *

Back on the icy tundra, the half dozen or so Orcs that had survived regrouped.

"Who is leader now?" one asked, scratching the back of its head.

Accusations and denials quickly began to fly around, no one wanting that position. Finally, they decided on lots, and as luck would have it, one by the name of Jardoz was chosen. The Orc cowered in fear and struggled to maintain control of his bowels as he contemplated the remainder of his, he was quite certain, brief time upon this plane.

The Spider Cleric was not going to be happy about this.

* * *

&

* * *

Well, hope everyone liked that bit, and that no one was put off by the violence.

As always, critiques and feedback are appreciated, as it's the only way that I'm going to get better at this. In the meanwhile, hope everyone has a great day.


	5. Adjustments

Hello again, everyone. Sorry for all the delays, but I've been scrambling around here. Though, in all the franticness and stress, I am happy to report that I am now a graduate from FSU (whoohoo!).

But enough about me.

As always, my heart felt thanks to everyone who took the time to read this story, and for those of you who reviewed, I hope that I answered your questions properly.

And also, special thanks to Animedragongirl for her splendid job proofreading this chapter.

And so, without further ado, here's the fifth installment of Finishing the Fight

* * *

**Chapter Four—Adjustments**

* * *

As the golem took off with the Tiefling, Bruenor and his compatriots were left alone with the other three in the… well, wherever the hell they were. Bruenor grunted and hopped down off the ramp. A grunt came from inside of the… Spell Jammer's cavernous depths. He noticed that Mortar was getting his shoulder wound caulked full of that white gunk they'd sprayed into the Tiefling's wounds. He wondered what the substance was. Perhaps some kind of healing potion that was applied like a salve?

The woman said something to the black golem, who performed a strange action, going ramrod straight and bringing its right hand to the tip of its armored head. Then it relaxed, and called out to Mortar in its strange language, making a "follow me" motion.

The large… hellspawn that was onboard came off next, its four mandibled mouth speaking in what appeared to be the native language of the woman. She nodded and walked off.

"My king?" Mortar asked, shaking Bruenor out of his thoughts.

He turned to face his bodyguard. "Yes, Mortar?"

"I think this thing wants me to follow it. Should I?" The wounded Dwarf kept staring back and forth between the strange golem and his leader.

"If they'd wanted to kill us, they'd have done it by now, or let the Orcs do it for 'em. I don't think they mean us any harm." Bruenor motioned him along. "He probably wants to get that wound patched up."

Mortar nodded, and trotted off.

The Dwarf king went back to analyzing what he had discovered. They were somewhere, surrounded by a huge fortress of metal. No doubt this was the headquarters of this group. He had deduced that the female was the one in charge, and that she was a rather powerful wizard, judging by her ability to construct arcane artifacts with the power he'd seen unleashed on the Orcs. And the fact that she'd constructed several golems, one of which he could find no better term to describe than "walking murder machine," and a demon to boot.

He looked and saw the woman standing over by the far wall. She seemed to be talking with someone, but what he couldn't tell. He was never one much for the conversations of wizards anyway. Instead, he decided to check out what he could about this place. The Dwarf king began to slowly walk around the Spell Jammer, noticing the battle scars that ran along its metal hull. This thing was no stranger to action, apparently. Along its side was a series of runic markings, for what purpose he could not tell, and a large drawing in the center of the craft.

There were two parts of it. At the lower bit there was a massive bird of prey, an eagle, its wings spread wide with a starred banner underneath it. Its talons clutched a trio of lightning bolts and one of the arcane weapons that the golems had been using. Above it, seemingly supported by the bird's wings, was a blue and green sphere, dotted with bits of white… a planet.

Could these humans be from an entirely different world? The Dwarf mused to himself, scratching at his beard for a moment. Then he heard Wulfgar cry out. He turned to his large friend, and found that the former Barbarian king was staring, slack jawed, at something. The Dwarf did a double take, and felt his eyes bulge out.

There were more Spell Jammers in this place but the one that Wulfgar was staring at was far larger, and in the Dwarf's eye, much more ferocious looking. It was solid black, and looked as if someone had just taken a hunk of metal and carved this device from it. It was currently braced on a quartet of support poles, and was as large and wide as a fully-grown dragon. Everything about its appearance screamed to him that this was an instrument of war.

"Where are we?" he asked aloud.

"I don't know," Wulfgar muttered aloud as he stared up at the ceiling. "Are we even still on Faerun? I have heard that some Jammers may cross to other planes."

"I'm not sure, but look on the bright side, at least it's warm in here!" Bruenor chuckled and nudged the much larger human in the side. Then he moved up to get a better look at the Spell Jammer in front of them.

From where she was off to the side, Miranda Keyes watched in amusement and fascination. "Seems they've taken a liking to the Longsword," she muttered. "Cortana, anything on the language yet?"

"Negative, Commander, still working on it. On the other hand, there is something I'd like to do to the little group of natives, if you'll indulge me," the A.I. said.

"It's not dangerous, is it?" Keyes frowned and stared up at the ceiling of the hangar.

"Not at all commander, just want to give them a little perspective." The A.I. sounded giddy, despite everything. "Plus, it might take their minds off their busted up friend for a few minutes."

"How is she, by the way?"

"Stabilized, but it'll be about a day or so before she's back on her feet." Cortana said. "The smaller alien should be good to go in less than an hour."

"How about the Chief?"

"Headed for the nearest armory to reload his weapons. He's still a little on edge, I think." Cortana didn't sound worried, which surprised the commander. Still, she was the one with the greatest amount of work experience with the cyborg, and the only one to have gotten inside of his head, so to speak.

"Alright then, show them your big surprise," despite it all Miranda found herself smiling.

* * *

As Bruenor was admiring the large, multi-tubed mechanisms on the end of the spell jammer, a loud warbling noise suddenly blasted through the chamber. He and Wulfgar looked at each other, and both went for their weapons. Olthik and Alicia also stood at the ready, but then he looked over at the wizard that was in charge of this place. The female mage just leaned back against the wall, her expression unreadable.

"Look!" Wulfgar shouted, and pointed over to one section of the wall.

Bruenor gasped as he realized that it was separating. It wasn't part of a wall at all, it was a door. And a very large one at that. That must have been how the Jammers got in an out. He cautiously walked over towards it, Wulfgar beside him. Both shivered slightly as a blast of chilled air hit them. They reached the edge, and gaped.

The ground was a hundred or more yards below them, and looking around, they could see the metal substance that the chamber was made from extending for a thousand feet in either direction. Then he saw the environment, the smooth, far too smooth in fact, stone. Having been born and raised around rock, Bruenor recognized that this was the work of an extremely potent heat source, like a volcanic eruption.

There were no volcanos in this region, though.

… But there had been an extraordinarily large heat source in this area in the last week.

"Not a fireball at all," the Dwarf king gasped as it dawned upon him. "A Spell Jammer… this whole thing is one giant Spell Jammer!"

What power did this mage command, to be able to craft and control such an artifact? He shook his head in disbelief. Then he noticed something else. Parts of the Jammer's hull were scored, blackened and charred by something. It wasn't from the entry into the atmosphere, as that would have heated up the entire craft, instead. These were pits, like the scars left from a pox infection. Something had attacked this thing, but what? And further, what manner of contraption could inflict damage upon something that could bury itself like this without any apparent problems?

His line of thought was cut off by a loud rumbling. For a moment, he expected an attack… then he realized that it was just his stomach. Frowning a bit, he put his weapons away and started to search his pockets for some trail rations. A deep, throaty chuckle cut him off and he looked back over his shoulder to see the demon standing there. It shook its armored head, and motioned with its strange, four fingered hand to follow.

Olthick and Alicia had come up next to them by now, and the four of them exchanged glances with each other. As the creature turned away and started to walk for the other end of the room, they decided to follow.

Bruenor found himself curious about the demon, as much about its strange appearance as the fact that it hadn't tried to murder them all yet. Drizzt had told him much about the demons he'd seen and learned about during his training in Menzoberrazan, and none of them matched this description.

As they followed the thing, it led them past the wizard, and into a strange, box-like contraption. As soon as they were in, it pressed a odd, runed circle, and the doors closed. There was a grinding noise, similar to the racket that large door had made when it opened, and the box began to rise.

After a few seconds the small room came to a stop. Then the doors opened up on a new level.

The demon walked out, reaching up and taking off the odd helmet that it wore. Able to get a better look at its skull, the Dwarf king noticed that it had scaled skin, rather like that of a snake's. The overall shape of it, combined with the razor sharp teeth both on its mandibles and in-between them reminded him of a bizarre cross between a shark and an insect's.

Then it turned and started to head down a long hallway. There were a few doors off to one side and the creature twisted abruptly entering one set of them.

The Dwarf looked up and noticed that there was a sign and some of those character markings above the door. "M," "E," "S," "S," Whatever that meant.

He found out a minute later as he entered it and noticed the large rows of tables and benches. It was a kitchen, of sorts.

"Like a mead hall," Wulfgar muttered aloud.

"So where's the food?" Bruenor frowned, and watched as the demon set its helmet down upon a table, walked over to the wall, and pressed another runed circle. There was a beep, and then a few seconds later, a ding, and a small door opened up.

The demon reached inside and pulled out a black tray made of an unknown material. Steam rose from within it as the creature brought it over to the table.

The Dwarven king noticed what appeared to be some kind of meat floating around in a gravy, and next to it, in a smaller container, chopped vegetables.

He shrugged and made his way over to the device. He couldn't read what was written, so he decided just to try the same thing that the demon had. Of course, he realized too late there was a slight flaw in that plan.

He was too short to reach the runes.

"Bloody hell. You can tell this thing was not designed with non-humans in mind," he grumbled, tapping a booted foot against the floor.

Wulfgar picked his mentor up a moment later, resulting in a rapid flurry of curses that would have made a sailor red in the face. However, Bruenor quickly resigned himself and pushed the same rune that the demon had.

The large Barbarian set him down, and handed him his meal when it was ready, then he went over to the table, sitting on the opposite edge away from the creature, hoping to further study it. It certainly had an interesting way of eating. It reminded him of a wild animal.

Bruenor picked up a fork that came with the tray, and speared a piece of the meat. Hesitantly, he took a bite. The food was hot, almost scalding, but it was good. He started to dig in, as did the others.

He spent some time talking in hushed tones with Wulfgar and Olthick, but his eyes kept drifting to the demon. Its gold, slitted eyes would occasionally fall upon him, and while he trusted that whatever sway the female mage had over it was secure, there was still something about it that puzzled him.

Eventually, the door hissed open, and Mortar walked in, a smile on his face, and only a hole in his chain mail to show where he'd once been skewered.

Bruenor, however, didn't spend a whole lot of time paying attention to him. The black golem was behind him, and further, had taken off its head. Or rather, its helmet.

The Dwarf's jaw dropped. The thing was a flesh and blood man underneath that armor? He stared at the skin that was almost as black as the armor he wore, and the slight graying of the hair along the edge. The human still wore his weapons, but seemed in a good mood. He cheerfully greeted the demon in his native tongue, and the mandibles twitched in a strange pattern, before it replied with something. The soldier moved over and got a plate of food for himself and Mortar, before returning to the table.

"Mortar, how are you doing?" Bruenor asked as the other Dwarf sat down with his food.

"Right as rain, my king," he grinned behind his beard. "That white stuff stopped the bleeding, sealed the wound, then they took me into some kind of room with a lot of beeping magic stuff, and what appears to be some alchemy equipment. Injected me with this stuff, and lo and behold, my skin started putting itself back together. Like one of those healing potions, but without the taste of sewer water."

"And the hellspawn?" Bruenor took a sip of the water that had been provided with the meal, wishing it were something stronger.

"Got her hooked up to some fancy equipment, a mask over her face, and blood coming out of some kind of contraption going into her," Mortar said, hesitantly testing out some of the vegetables. "What's more, I think they're growing a new arm for her. They had to take the old one off."

"What do you mean?" Wulfgar took a sudden interest in the conversation.

"I mean they've got some kind 'o tube filled with this green gunk and there's an arm being made in it, already got the bones together and some of the muscle," he said in between forkfuls of food.

"Huh. Qhat about the big green golem?" his king asked.

"Not sure, sir, it left after it got the girl all hooked up. It was talking with someone though, a girl I couldn't see. Her voice kept coming out of the ceiling." He pointed up for emphasis.

"The wizard?" Wulfgar raised an eyebrow. "Magic users do have such means of communication."

"Nah, this one's voice was different," Mortar said. "There's someone on this fortress we haven't met yet."

"Spell Jammer," Bruenor said. "We're on a Spell Jammer, and a big one at that."

Mortar just shrugged and went back to his food. Being wounded and all the fighting must have worked up a mighty appetite.

* * *

The hours had passed swiftly, and night time was quickly approaching. Cortana was still ironing out the kinks in the translation program, based of her continued observations of the natives interacting with one another. What most intrigued her was the robed one. She was often separate from the others, moving around on her own, and muttering words that had no discernable relation to the other words that were being spoken. The A.I. had spent a few nanoseconds contemplating this, before she remembered the video feed that John had left on his suit's recording instruments.

She had watched the scene a hundred times in the space of a few seconds, watched as a ball of flame, and then a bolt of ionized energy had come from the palms of her hands. The suits sensors detected nothing out of the ordinary up until that moment. The phrase "there was something screwy going on" came to mind. If so, what power or energy field was this woman tapping into? And further, how might one gain access to it?

The woman muttered again, very quietly this time, and like it had been the day before, there was a sudden spike in the EM frequencies on her scanners. Had this been the feeling that John had gotten? What did it mean? If there was truly some manner of long range communication or observation going on here, Cortana didn't like it. She didn't know enough about these natives to trust them, and this unidentifiable source of energy was enough of an enigma to warrant suspicion and caution of the highest caliber. She reacted as quickly as she could isolating the frequencies, and then cutting them off.

The woman seemed confused, almost disoriented for a second and looked around, almost fearful. The A.I. made a special note to keep as many of her electronic eyes as possible on that woman, until she was able to establish communications. Hopefully, that wouldn't be more than a couple more hours.

"Cortana?" Commander Keyes asked.

"Ma'am?" she responded, having a holographic image of herself pop up on the arm rest of the captain's chair.

"Status on the alien in medibay?"

"The slash wound's been patched up, and I'm about to finish the final nerve connections with the cloned limb," the A.I. said. "It's taken a little longer, as I'm in unfamiliar territory here, with her not being human."

"Understood. About how long until she's awake?" Cortana watched as Miranda finished making a report of the day's activities in her personal log.

"I'm going to start bringing her out of her induced sleep soon, I'd say a good twenty minutes. Why?" She took another look around the ship, monitored the little bit of power that the backup reactors were turning out, and corrected a minor inefficiency in them.

"Okay, have the Chief bring some food up to her, and stay there. He was the one that bailed her out, maybe she'll be less inclined to spaz out if there's what at least passes for a familiar face there," Keyes said. "Where is he, anyway?"

"Heavy weapons lockers." Cortana flicked and imaginary piece of hair away from her face.

"Should have known." The commander gave a wry smile. "Pass the info along to him, and tell him to make certain the helmet's off. I want our patient to realize that he's human, just to help ease her into this."

"Will do, ma'am." Cortana gave a two fingered salute before she blinked out of existence.

* * *

In the heavy weapons locker of Armory C, Spartan-117 was double checking a pair of Jackhammer rocket launchers. Both of the twin 120mm tubes spun properly when he pressed the cycling button, and the scope appeared to be accurate. Another quickly glance over the casing for any damage that they might have incurred proved satisfactory.

"Chief?" the voice came into his ear.

"Yes, Cortana?" he asked as he put the anti-armor weapons back in their secured lockers and closed them up.

"I'm getting ready to wake up our little resident in the medical bay. The commander wants you there with a hot meal for her, and she wants the helmet off."

"You sure that's a good idea?" he muttered, but sighed. Orders were orders. He slapped an assault rifle to his back and a pistol to his hip, and headed for the mess.

It didn't take him long to get there, but when he did he was in for a surprise. The doors opened for him, and his combat reflexes kicked in, slowing everything down a fraction of a second before an armor plated alien was about to smash into his kneecaps. Acting quickly, the Spartan reached down and scooped up the little alien. It giggled, twitching and squirming in his grasp, poking at his arm, possibly curious as to why his finger kept stopping about half an inch short of the actual armor. The Chief raised an eyebrow and just stared at the thing, watching as it laughed manically. In the mess, Johnson and Orna both let out sighs of relief.

"Yeah, it's been going on like that for about twenty minutes now," Cortana said in a mirth filled voice. "You have no idea how funny it was."

"You might have warned me of this…" the Chief growled, not amused with the situation. The small alien, having tired of poking him, had drawn the axe that it carried, and was prodding him with the flat end of it, still puzzled about his armor.

"Oh, but the look on your face was priceless!" Cortana laughed merrily in his ear.

"You can't even _see_ my face from where you are."

"But I can certainly imagine it," she giggled, and the Spartan frowned as he was prodded again.

He reached down and yanked the axe out of the alien's hand. "That is quite enough of that," he glared at it. It moaned and seemed to pout.

"Johnson, Orna, Sitrep?" he looked over to them as the thing went back to poking him with its finger.

"They seemed interested in what we had to drink besides good 'ole H-two-oh; and Squid Face here thought it would be a wonderful idea to give them some of the Mega Jolt cola," Johnson glared at the Elite, who simply shook his head.

"Orna," the Chief stated, remaining calm despite all of this, "were you aware that stuff was reserved for long shift personnel so we didn't waste stimulants in non-combat situations?"

"No, I was not." He hung his head, and his mandibles moved in a manner that could only be described as sheepish. "I had no idea they would react like this to it."

"How much caffeine did he get in him?" John shifted his head to the side as the little alien reached up and tried to feel the helmet's faceplate.

"I'd reckon about four hundred milligrams…" Johnson trailed off, scratching the back of his head nervously.

"For the love of…" the Spartan threw his eyes towards the ceiling. "Cortana," there was a simmering anger to his voice. "You saw this happening, why didn't you stop them?"

"Scientific curiosity. I wanted to see if the caffeine would affect them the way it does humans." He could hear her shrugging.

"I'm going to delete you for this." He dodged another poke.

"Oh, Chief, you wound me." She finished the statement with another girlish laugh.

The Spartan sighed, and put the thing down. It immediately started running around the mess hall again. He shook his head and made his way over to the food preparation area.

"What do you think our patient would enjoy?" he asked.

"Well, my scanning of her systems indicates that she's an omnivore like us, but the pointed teeth lend more to her being primarily a predator. Focus on something with meat." Cortana said, her voice reverting back to a scientific tone.

The Spartan nodded to himself. He had no idea of the metabolic necessities of the alien, but it seemed likely, considering the movements and reaction times that it possessed, that they would be somewhat high. Coupling that with the fact that she hadn't eaten at all since arriving, he decided that bringing two meals would be preferable. He considered it for a moment, before selecting the roasted turkey meal that suddenly seemed so popular, judging by the contents of the waste bin, and a beef based entrée. Both meals popped out, and he scooped them up.

"Give that back!"

The Spartan turned and watched as Johnson pursued the caffeinated alien around the mess hall. The creature held Johnson's ODST helmet in its hands, and was gleefully leaping from table to table all across the room.

He heard a grunt of disbelief and something in the native language of this world. He looked down and saw the red bearded one, who he suspected was the leader of this motley bunch, shaking his head at the scene before him. John just sighed, before heading for the medical ward.

When he arrived, Cortana's remotely controlled medical drones were double checking the nerve attachments to the new arm. With gentle pokes and prods, the A.I. observed how the nerves twitched and responded to stimulations. She seemed satisfied, based of the cheery "Good as new," that came from the holotank in the center of the room.

"How long till she wakes up?" the Spartan asked, as he set the food trays down next to the bed that the alien lay upon.

"Probably about five minutes. I've already administered stimulants." Cortana winked into existence, a smile on her face. "Not a bad piece of work, if I do say so myself." She looked over at her friend. "John, you know the commander's orders."

The cyborg said nothing, but popped the seal on his helmet, and slowly took it off. For the first time since he'd woken up that morning, he smelled the air of the ship as it was. He took a chair from the room and drew up next to the holotank.

"Cortana, divide the tank into two sections," he said. A barrier sprang up between them, and he nodded. "Load AV file two-four-nine-one-dash-oh-eight in the left section, and the battle from today in the right, starting from time index zero-zero-nine."

On the left side, High Charity came to life, and images of Brutes, Grunts, and Jackals were everywhere. In front of them, frozen in time, was a large, almost snake like creature with enormous eyes… Truth. In his hand he held an activation index. The small, green T shaped object looked so harmless, beautiful even, held there in his three fingered hand. Few could guess its true purpose, to start a process that would wipe out all life in the galaxy. The Prophet of Mercy playing the role of the wizened old advisor, was right behind him.

The right side showed the brutish humanoids just as he closed into combat range with his shotgun.

"Start both of them." The Master Chief brought his hands up and laced his fingers together, holding them about level with his nose. Before him, both images sprang to life.

The Brutes became aware of his presence, and moved to guard their holy leader, while the humanoids made similar growls and roars, charging at the besieged group with mindless ferocity. Some of the Brutes drew their weapons, other's charged at him with their power spears, intent on skewering him. He grabbed a Needler, and opened fire on them.

* * *

Neeshka found herself floating in blackness, slowly rocking back and forth. The Tiefling's mind struggled to figure out what was going on. She could feel a tingling sensation on her right arm. Her memories were a tad fuzzy, but she distinctly recalled being mauled by a Dire Wolf and then getting pulled into some kind of metal contraption, with the two soldiers and some kind of demon hovering over her.

She felt a little sore, but none of the burning pain associated with the Hells, so either she wasn't dead, or her fears weren't true, and her heritage by itself was not enough to condemn her. The sounds of explosions and roars faintly reached her, and the blackness started to recede. Was there still a battle raging? Or had she, by some mistake in the afterlife sorting system, wound up in Valhalla?

For all the problems that she'd been plagued with, growing up with devil blood in her veins, one advantage was that she could easily wake up and shake off poisons in her system. She cracked an eye and stared around. She was in a white colored room, made out of some kind of metal, with beeping machinery all around her. Her armor had been removed, and she was wearing some kind of robe-like piece of clothing. There was also some kind of mask over her face with a tube coming out of it certainly didn't look like a battlefield, wherever she was.

The second thing she noticed was that she could move her right arm. She looked down at it, and wiggled the fingers just slightly. Everything seemed to be working like it was supposed to. These people apparently had access to a powerful cleric.

She heard a voice, deep, iron hard and distantly familiar to her. Slowly sitting up, she felt the straps along the back of her head, and tried to remove them. Then she saw it. The green armored soldier was sitting about twenty feet away from her, watching two scenes of combat play out before him. One she recognized as the battle with the Orcs, but the other one was not only in a place she didn't recognize, but it was against foes that she'd never seen before.

Well, she took that back. The large, furred things reminded her of a cross between an Orc and a Bugbear, only larger, and better equipped. She certainly didn't know of any of those species that wore heavy plate armor on a regular basis. Then there were the little small things running around between them, yipping their heads off. Bolts of strange colored light flew from the weapons they held in their hands.

The soldier said something and both images halted, slowly rotating. The Tiefling leaned forward staring at him. She had no way of knowing it, but she had just become a member of a very select group of people. She was one of less than fifty individuals outside of the Spartan-II program that had ever seen the face that lay behind that helmet. The solder's face was what might have been described as ruggedly handsome, with a solid jaw and chin, although his cheekbones did stand out quite a bit, almost enough to make her think he had some Elf blood in him. Scars marred some of the right side of his visage. His age was also something of a mystery, and she couldn't place it. His face looked as though he had just entered his mid thirties, but the sandy blond hair on his head was rapidly giving way to gray, so that was unlikely.

Then again, his skin had an unhealthy, almost pasty white-gray coloring to it. There were also his eyes, green, and they seemed to glow with some kind of inner fire. She got a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach and gulped. Was she sitting in the same room with a vampire?

Those eyes darted over to her, and it rose up, before striding over next to her, and uncoupling her mask. He hung it up next to the tank, and then gestured to her side. There were a couple of trays of food there, and her stomach suddenly reminded her that she hadn't eaten in a while. She reached over and grabbed one, barely remembering to nab the eating utensils, before she wolfed down a large bite.

She heard a voice, a female one, and suddenly looked around the room. She couldn't see where the source of it was, until the image of the two battles flickered suddenly and were replaced by a woman. At least, Neeshka thought it was a woman. Her skin changed between purple and blue, with strange runes that she'd never seen before rushing over it. Hair that was long in the front and cropped short in the back moved in some unseen wind. The Tiefling realized that it was looking at her, and then it stared up at the soldier. She spoke to him, and he responded. The hellspawn took some slight comfort in the fact that she was able to see its teeth and noticed that it was sporting canines, rather than fangs.

Secure in the thought that it wasn't going to suddenly try and drink her blood, she went back to eating. The soldier and the other woman exchanged some words, and then the battle popped back up.

The Chief went back to his observation now that their patient seemed to be okay. She had looked a little spooked when she saw him, but he wasn't surprised. The few people who had seen his face, outside of his family, usually got pretty freaked out too. He looked, as Kelly had once said "unnatural." Still, she seemed to accept him faster than most did. It was possible that considering what appeared to live on this world that he wasn't too out of place. Either that or she was simply hungry and preferred to concentrate on food for the moment.

His recording of the Battle of High Charity was reaching on of its most peculiar moments. The Flood had touched down a few minutes prior, and were already swarming over the city. Soldier, both human and Covenant, had been converted into nightmarish Combat Forms, and raced around, killing all who opposed them while the small, jelly-fish like Infection Forms added the dead and living alike to their numbers. He had been walking along a corridor, with a window off to one side, showing a view of the mobile city-world. Truth came over the broadcasting system, trying to rally his forces to repel the invading parasites. Gravemind's response had been furious, both on the battlefield and in their minds. His rage had been so palpable as to leave behind what Cortana had described as a "Psychic Echo" upon the feed. John could hear every word within his mind, but those who had not been there merely reported that they felt off, like something wasn't right when the eons old creature had been speaking.

Neeshka heard another voice start talking, but she couldn't understand what it was. One word did stand out however, because the tone of voice was almost reverent, worshipful, when speaking it: Forerunner.

She had no warning for what happened next. Her mind suddenly exploded into white hot agony. She dropped her fork and clutched at her head as pain surged through it. A scream was torn from her throat before she could stop it.

_Arrogant!..._ A voice screamed in her head, deafeningly loud, full of anger, malice. It was like a demon's telepathy, but much more powerful… much more palpable. Rage and hunger and fury filled her mind and she screamed again, shaking her head back and forth, desperate to rid herself of the pain.

_…conquered fleets of __**millions!**__ Consumed a galaxy of flesh and mind and metal!_ it descended into an indecipherable rage again. She felt hands gripping her, dragging her down. She was dying, she knew it. _…pathetic…_ more malice, fury and raw anger consumed her mind. _…insignificant life will be snuffed out…_ again the voice faded out, and this time the rage, and her pain doubled in intensity. She heard another voice screaming, that woman from before, and she felt blackness try to swallow her.

Then the pain faded, leaving her drawing deep breathes, vaguely aware that there was a face staring into hers. The soldier kept looking between her and then back to the battle that was playing out. She paid him no mind, however, merely tried to piece together what had just happened, what had just been unleashed upon her.

She wasn't certain how much time had passed, but the doors to the room burst open suddenly, and more people came in. She recognized the black armor from the other soldier, and the demon. Bruenor was there too, as well as Wulfgar and another woman that Neeshka had never seen before. She caught snips of hurried conversation, and occasionally heard that voice again, though it was less intense this time, merely feeling like an uncomfortable itching in her mind, rather than raw power trying to cleave her skull open.

"By the gods!" she heard Wulfgar exclaim.

Weakly, she looked up and saw the battles raging. The Orcs were merely ignored, it was the other that she focused on. The images—possibly from the soldier's memory, she wondered—kept moving around, showing him slaughtering everything in his path, but then came other things. Small little creatures that squiggled about the floor on more tentacles than she could count, slithering towards corpses and bodies. One of the shorter creatures got one on him, and the thing squealed and thrashed as the little monster sliced open its armor and burrowed in. The demonic soldier began to twitch and spasm horribly, and she could see something moving underneath its skin, which quickly turned from a mottled, purple grey in color to greenish brown. The thing's head suddenly slumped to the side, clearly dead, but it rose up and shifted its aim, firing upon its former comrades. Distracted, many were buried under the living tide that rushed them.

Some were gunned down though, but it didn't seem to make a difference, they rose as walking corpses anyway.

_Become one…_ the voice echoed in her mind.

The soldier raised his weapon, and emptied it into all of them, the smaller creatures burst and popped like bubbles, but the… zombies, took shots from the light weapon that ripped off limbs, heads, and punched massive holes in the guts of the creatures and they still kept coming. They did fall though, after being reduced to charred husks.

_Child of my enemy…_

The soldier looked up, and four of the transformed things suddenly jumped from a ledge, a hundred feet up. Weapons in their hands gave of flashes of orange, red, and blue lights. Several of them seemed to hit the soldier, but nothing happened to him, and then the image blurred, like she was watching everything too fast, and he was gunning them down, racing for cover while they tried to do the same.

It was only after they had been blasted to pieces that she realized something. These ones were, or at least had been, human. Their necks hung at odd angles, and body armor was strained to protect their ravaged bodies. Tentacles had burst from beneath their skin, and still wiggled and twitched.

Pulses of light appeared at the far edge of the images. The soldier turned and faced them, and like her telescope, the image suddenly zoomed in. She could see a strange contraption, shaped vaguely like an arrow-head and floating a few inches above the air. A quartet of creatures that resembled the massive demon manned it, two bracing against the sides and firing weapons spitting green and blue beams at an onrushing horde of things, while a third one manned a massive weapon of a similar nature that was mounted on the back. The zombie-like creatures dove out of the way of the blasts with frightening speed, taking cover behind metal structures, occasionally leaning out to take quick, coordinated bursts of fire with their weapons. Five of them did so from roof tops and alley ways, and the demon on the right edge of the craft had some kind of energy field spring up around it. Then it faded as dozens of bursts of light connected with it in the space of less than a second. The blasts continued, and it screamed out in pain and fell to the ground, twitching as steam rose from chunky, gapping holes that had been blasted into it.

The demon with the larger weapon managed to catch one of its foes, vaporizing an arm and a head, but the monster simply ignored this and ducked back down to cover.

Behind the machine, Neeshka noticed another one slump out of an alleyway. It held a large, double tubed weapon in its hands. There was a blossom of fire and smoke, and something streaked towards the contraption. Too late, the demons noticed their peril. Their machine and they themselves exploded into a fiery mushroom of destruction. The Tiefling's eyes bulged. She knew zombies almost as well as she knew Orcs… and they didn't do those sorts of things. They relied on overwhelming numbers, not coordinated assaults and surprise flanking maneuvers. She watched the creatures a little longer as the soldier pulled his vision back to normal, and observed the efficiency with which they moved. It was as if they were being controlled by a single, all powerful entity.

The doors in front to the soldier opened, and he went out firing, mowing down demon and monster alike.

_Sinner!_ the voice boomed in her head again, making her temple throb painfully, she heard little more than a roar after that, with only the occasional snippets getting through.

_…your voice with mine…_ the source called out, as the three way battles continued to rage, beams of light and bursts of fire bursting and exploding all around.

Another one of the machines showed up, this one crewed by the Orc like things. Their fire cut through the zombies that were out in the open, but many more sought cover and fired off retaliatory bursts from their own wands.

To her amazement, one of the human monsters came in from nowhere, landing next to the craft. The Orc-thing closest to it tried to twist and get his weapon up, but it was backhanded by the zombie's right fist. Even from the images, from where she sat, Neeshka swore she could hear the vertebrae crack and snap. Its head virtually turned completely around, the thing slumped. In the blink of an eye, the left arm, which now sported several of those tentacles, slapped the contraption. The fury of the blow sent it flipping through the air, crashing and rolling over, killing the two Orc-things on the outside instantly. The one apparently controlling the craft was pinned, and screams that were a mixture of fury and fear came from it as more of the little jelly-fish like things closed in. One landed on it, sliced into its neck, and burrowed inside. The thing howled, thrashing about horribly and spasming as its body twisted and mutated into another of the monsters' ranks.

_Rejoice… I am salvation…_ the voice said, barely audible as the twitching stopped and the thing's hands returned to the controls. The one that had knocked it over hurried up, and pushed the machine back upright. Two more joined it, and manned the other positions. Then it took off, into the depths of the strange city.

She shuddered as the images filled her mind, and felt the urge to wretch. The new female human seemed to notice her condition at last, and barked out an order. The images stopped. One of the floating machines came over to her and started beeping a few times. She just wanted it to go away. Bruenor and Wulfgar were whispering to themselves, but she didn't care what they were saying. She just wanted the throbbing in her head to stop.

The three humans and the demon, along with the glowing woman, appeared to be talking as well. Their eyes kept drifting over to her, and she noted looks of concern on their faces.

"What do you think was her problem?" Miranda asked Cortana.

"Well, she started to freak out when we reached the part in John's recordings where Gravemind went postal. We know that he left an echo behind on the recording device, it's possible that she might be sensitive to psychic events." The A.I. shrugged. "We should be able to ask her tomorrow, I'm running over the final modifications to my translator program. I'll be uploading it into your neural nets when you hit the sack." She held up a hand. "No guarantees of it being one hundred percent accurate, but it should at least allow us to converse."

"Good to hear," Keyes said with a nod. "Is she fit to leave the infirmary?"

"One hundred percent back to normal… well, aside from whatever mental scars we may have just unwittingly given her." Cortana crossed her arms and looked over towards the alien.

"Okay, well, then everyone out." The commander turned and started shooing the other two natives away. Johnson and Orna followed, with the Master Chief pausing just long enough to grab his helmet and slip it back on.

As they left, Neeskha pulled herself back together. _"Okay, Neeshka, focus. You've stared down demons, undead, Orc hordes, assassins, and ticked off wizards, a few enhanced zombies shouldn't bother you."  
_  
She took a few deep breathes, and got up out of the bed. It didn't take her long to notice that the owners of this place had left her a change of clothes, with the pants adjusted for her tail. She noticed the coloring was an odd, dark green for the shirt, while the pants were a mottled, brown and green, with seemingly random stripes and splotches scattered about them. There was also a pair of black boots and some socks.

She hurriedly donned them, and then stepped outside, looking around at the long metal corridors, with pipes running overhead. Strange metal chunks were strewn throughout it, attached to the floors, walls, and ceiling. She wondered what they were for, as they seemed terribly inconvenient for a pathway.

She almost missed the soldier, as still as he was, some fifteen feet away from her. His legs were spread slightly, his hands clasped behind his back. Once he saw her, he motioned for her to follow him. They traveled down the corridor for a few minutes, stepped onto a lift of some sort, and sank deeper into the fortress.

Once off, it only took a couple more minutes for him to lead her to a long room with a series of bunks inside of it. She noticed that Bruenor, Wulfgar, and the others were lying down, getting ready to go to sleep. Except for Olthik, who had climbed up on his and was excitedly bouncing up and down. She raised an eyebrow. Had the Dwarf been possessed by something? She'd seen Imps that were less off the wall. The Tiefling just sighed, and looked up to the soldier.

"Which one's mine?" she pointed to the beds to try and convey her meaning. He simply shrugged, which she took as pick the one of her choice.

She chose one far enough away from the others and nestled into it. Surprisingly, the mattress was quite comfortable, as were the sheets and pillow.

There was a slight thunk, which she realized was Olthik bouncing too high and smashing his head into the bunk above him. He grunted and rubbed his head, before apparently deciding that this might be a good time to get some rest. She looked at the others, most were already asleep, but the black skinned soldier called out something to his comrade, who responded in what sounded like a friendly tone. The green one then sat down against the end to the wall, and bowed his head. Unusual sleeping habit, the hellspawn noted. She shrugged and turned over.

For a moment, she heard that voice again in her head, screaming in rage, and its subtle chilling whispers. Then she shook her head and forced it form her mind. Despite being out of it for most of the day, her body still needed rest, and wondering about nightmares in the dark would not help her there.

Fortunately, if she had any dreams that night, she did not remember them.

A hundred miles away, with only the light of the stars to guide him, Drizzt Do'Urden galloped past the small canyon that marked the entrance to the Ten Towns region.

* * *

&

* * *

Well, hope that was okay, and not too badly executed.

I'm not really sure what else to put here, as my brain is kinda mushy right now.

At any rate, any and all comments, criticisms, and flames will be welcomed with open arms.

Until next time, Red Mage 04, signing off, and wishing you all a happy and safe time.


	6. Chapter 5:Conversations and Revelations

Chapter Five—Conversations and Revelations

Good morning everyone. Sorry for the holdups, but I've had a lot going on in my life lately, not the least of which is lining up an apartment for my deployment to Florida Coastal law school, where I'll be moving in the last bits of July.

I've also had some other distractions that were not so terribly important, like getting wrapped up in Team Fortress 2. Fun game, though the Pyros are a tad underpowered (whose idea was it to give them a flamethrower with a reach of ten feet?) and I've learned that a Heavy Weapons Guy/Medic combo is nasty in the right spots.

That aside, I want to again thank everyone who read the story, for taking time out of your lives and spending it looking over my writing. I hope that it was worth it. To those of you who reviewed, I hope that I answered your questions well, and if you have anything else you'd like to ask me, don't hesitate to do so.

Special thanks to Animedragongirl for taking the time to critique my work and make this chapter much better than it would have been otherwise.

Lawyers whose ranks I'm about to join: Me no own. You no sue. Got it, ya gitz?

* * *

**Chapter Five—Conversations and Revelations**

* * *

**  
**  
Jardoz whimpered as the cloaked figure looked down upon him. It was dark in the cave, but he could see well enough. The Dark Elf in front of him was a large specimen for one of her kind, nearly the size of a human, only far stronger.

"Why the Matrons bother with your kind, I will never understand." The Spider Cleric crossed her arms, and leaned down to where she was only a few inches away from the Orc's face. "I sent out three hundred of you to silence the king of Clan Battle Hammer." Her voice was quiet, but Jardoz honestly would have preferred if she'd been screaming. Her kind was less dangerous when they were like that, they were more predictable. "Not three, not three dozen, not three score, but three _hundred_ to slaughter him so that he could not rally his Clan to take back the Hall… This was a boon to our cause, a Godsend!" She twitched and started to pace back and forth, her black cloak, covered with a spider-web patter, softly sliding over the floor of the cavern. "King Bruenor Battle Hammer, all alone save for a pair of body guards and a one backwards human savage, and what happens? Do you strike him down with ease? No!" She whirled, and her hand dove to the whip she carried at her side.

Jardoz never had time to scream before the whip came to life. It was a wicked thing, with five heads shaped to resemble snakes, each moving with its own evil intelligence. They struck him across the face, chest and arms. The fangs bit in deep and tore at him, injecting their foul venom. He suddenly went numb where they struck, chilled to the core by the strikes. The whip landed again, and then a third time, causing the Orc to fall over in pain, clutching and writhing at his wounds. He dared to look up, straight into the burning red eyes of the Dark Elf.

"No," she hissed, grabbing him around the throat and pulling him up into her face. "You come running back like the Hells were unleashed upon you, screaming tales of demons and doom…"

"It is the truth, blessed one," Jardoz managed to gasp out, only to get punched upside the head. His world spun and twisted, and he felt like he was going to be sick. Provided of course that he survived the next few minutes.

"Well then, let us just see, shall we?" The cleric snarled, placing her black palm over his face.

Images began to bombard her mind, she could see the snow and the blood around herself. Orcs were falling left and right, some of them cut down by the Dwarven king and his allies. However, most of the carnage was coming from behind them. The perspective changed, zipping over and focusing on a green armored… creature, the likes of which she had never seen before. It raised a wand like device, and it gave off a flash. An Orc and a Dire Wolf dissolved into a bloody mess.

The creature kept using the wand, before it paused, and in rapid blurred motions, put some manner of tube into the wand. A curious method of recharging an artifact, she noted. Then it rushed forward and leaped over the remaining ranks, disappearing from sight.

It was only a few seconds later something else showed up. Something wet hit her back, and a loud roar nearly deafened her. The viewpoint twisted, looking up. A strange craft blasted overhead, and there, standing in the back, was some kind of otherworldly beast. The device it was holding began to roar and Orcs and wolves began to fly apart, reduced to little more than smears.

She released Jardoz from her hold. The Orc fell back, gasping for breath and just twitching upon the ground. She ignored him for the most part, contemplating this turn of events. It was unexpected. There was a third player in this game, one with access to a Spell Jammer and some manner of powerful, arcane weapons. The Matrons would need to be informed of this immediately.

"Take your leave of me. I must speak with my superiors." She waved a hand dismissively.

Jardoz struggled to try and rise his feet, but couldn't get up because of all the poison that was in him at the moment. Two of his comrades came forward and shouldered him up, helping him to escape before the priestess changed her mind, as she often did.

The Dark Elf reached down into her belt pouch and drew out a scroll. She broke the seal in it with her thumb, and opened it up. Reading the arcane words written upon it was easy enough, and soon, the cave around her faded. She floated in blackness for only a few moments, before eight other Drow suddenly stood before her. Each was clad in regal robes, and cloaks, with symbols of Lloth and their houses emblazoned upon them. Each was within her own private sanctuary, away from the prying eyes of males and other lesser beings.

"Nobel matrons," she said in greeting, and bowed before them.

"Yes, Briza?" The one in the center spoke first.

She was different from the others. While the other seven Matrons were centuries old, none of them looked the part. The center one, however, was a withered crone, with deep set wrinkles and sagging features. However, none doubted her power. Matron Baenre held more power within herself than all the other seven Matrons of the ruling council combined, and her house held enough soldiers, wizards and high priestesses to challenge the rest of Menzoberrazan.

"Matron Baenre, I have an update on our activities for you." She bowed again.

"Is the Dwarf king dead?" the First Matron asked, her tone neutral, but her voice full of the power that she commanded.

"No, honored Matron." Briza shook her head. "The information provided to us was accurate, but the Orcs that were dispatched were unable to slay him."

Baenre narrowed her red eyes, and her lips tightened into a frown. "Briza, I selected you personally for this task because I felt you were the most capable. If you, with the thousands of Orcs that you have at your command, and our other surface allies, are unable to slay one meager Dwarf and a pathetically tiny 'escort,' I may have to rethink that."

"My apologies, Matron Baenre." Briza bowed as low as she could. "I dispatched a number of Orcs, and they almost had him, but they were halted by the unexpected arrival of a Spell Jammer, and a pair of unusually powerful demons."

The Drow's eyebrows shot upwards at this and she cocked her head to one side. "Are you certain, child? The Dwarves are not in the habit of making infernal alliances. Not surface Dwarves at any rate."

"I will show you what the survivors saw." the high priestess opened her mind, allowing the eight Matrons to peer into it.

They saw Jardoz's memories, and several of them seemed surprised, while others were curious, and Matron Dilias even seemed unnerved by the presence of the two creatures and the Spell Jammer.

"What should I do, my lady?" Briza asked, daring to stare up at Baenre.

The elder Drow merely cupped her chin, deep in thought. "Those are not like any demons I have ever seen, and I wonder if they truly are, or if they're something else… possibly creatures from another plane of existence, like the Githyanki. At any case, we can safely assume that Bruenor is no longer a target of opportunity at the moment. Focus on securing our alliances and depriving Clan Battle-Hammer of any allies _they_ might secure. I will do what I can to gather additional information."

"As you will it, Matron Baenre," Briza said.

"As Lolth wills it, child." The First Matron held up a finger. "As Lolth wills it."

"Of course." Briza bowed again, and then left their thoughts.

As the Orc cave rematerialized around her, Briza Baenre pulled her cloak further down over her head. It was time to marshall her forces and prepare them for the next move. Soon her task here would be done, and then she could move on to far more pleasurable tasks… like hunting down the one loose end that had haunted her all these years. Her brother was upon the surface, near here, actually. The simpering, weak fool apparently watched over some hovels that dared to call themselves gatherings of civilization, easy prey for a dedicated strike force.

She imagined flaying the traitor alive, torturing him to the breaking point, and then carving out his heart with her sacrificial knife. The joy of the thought was rapturous, but she reminded herself sadly, business before pleasure.

* * *

The cold wind bit into his face as he rode along the icy tundra and towards the mountains, but Drizzt ignored it. He had met with Cattie-Brie a few hours earlier, and the young woman had explained to him the situation. It had been almost eight days since Bruenor had departed. He wasn't expected back for another week or so, but Drizzt wasn't about to leave him out there by himself if he could. He owed his old friend too much.

He'd been riding for hours now, and dawn was just starting to crest the horizon. He was really going to have to thank Lady Alustriel for this horse, it was turning into a real life saver.

He came up to the top of a small rise in the tundra, and suddenly pulled his mount up short. The horse snorted, but did as instructed. Stretched before him in the pre-dawn light was a scene that he could only describe as hell. Frozen, twisted corpses stretched by the score across a bloodstained landscape. He guided his horse towards the battlefield, stopping a hundred or so feet short of it. He hopped off the animal and landed gracefully, his feet barely making a mark in the snow.

He moved over to the nearest set of bodies, and stared down at them. They had been gnawed upon by predators—wolves, more than likely, but one never could tell. However, even though many of the bodies had been partially savaged by animals he could tell that swords hadn't killed them, nor any blade that he could recognize. Dire Wolf and Orc carcasses lay where they had fallen, with no signs of them being dragged through the snow, but they had still be ripped to pieces by some unseen force.

Drizzt frowned. Orc armor was not exactly renowned for its defensive properties, but it did protect against most slashing attacks. These warriors, though, had been utterly ripped apart by something, and done so in very short order, given that few had attempted to flee, and those that had hadn't gotten very far. The Drow frowned and shifted back further into his cloak. There was something very strange going on here, and he shuddered slightly. This virtually reeked of some kind of extra-planar being.

He sniffed the air. There was a slight scent to the area that felt demonic, but not potent enough for a full blooded hellspawn. No hybrid could have caused devastation like this, though, so what had done it?

The Dark Elf looked around, searching for that one clue that he knew had to be waiting here for him. He spent several minutes searching the snow, silently grateful that he found nothing indicating that Bruenor had perished here. There was, however, evidence of magic, judging by the number of corpses clustered in regions of the battle field that appeared to have been charred beyond recognition, rather than blasted apart.

It was over by the rocky cliff rise that he found his first clue. There were few bodies and less blood here, and the corpses were arranged around it. Whatever the Orcs had pursued had made a stand here, and had fought well. There were, however, several things that caught his attention. Down in the snow were several strange casings, mostly red, but with bits of gold metal on the bottom.

Drizzt reached down and picked one of them up. The metal part chilled his fingers, even through the fur lined gloves that he wore, but he ignored it. It looked like it was brass, or some similar metal, and as he flipped it over, he noticed a number of strange markings on the back, runes that he had never seen before. His mouth twitched into a frown, and he stared at the other part of it. The crimson bit was made of an unknown material, completely alien to the touch. It compressed and flexed too easily to be metal, but it wasn't a form of paper either. It almost felt like hardened resin.

He quickly pocketed the thing, before moving on to see if there was anything else. A couple of other objects grabbed his attention, such as a matched pair of blades that seemed far too high in quality for Orcish weapons. He picked them up out of the snow, and noticed the dark blood on them. One of the things that the Orcs had been hounding had been using these.

Drizzt noticed that near the pommel of each blade was a half lidded eye with three teardrop like markings on it. The symbol of Neverwinter. What would a Neverwinter agent be doing out here? The Dark Elf frowned again, and slipped the two weapons into his belt before heading back to his horse.

He traveled onwards for a few more minutes before he got the shock of his life. There was something there waiting for him. As the sun started to clear the peaks behind the mountains, he caught sight of a large figure standing next to some kind of object that reminded him a lot of the floating thrones that Matron Mothers used out in public. He raised an eye as he stared at the armor on it, and its posture. He thought it might have been some arcane construct at first, but there was something about it that seemed off. The way it was reacting to his presence, the slight movements in its arms that were uncharacteristic of golem kind.

Drizzt approached with caution, his hands ready to fly to his twin scimitars if it proved hostile. As he got closer, he began to appreciate just how much more massive this thing was than him. He barely began to come up to its chest, and it looked as if it would have towered even over Wulfgar. He was inside of twenty feet when to his amazement, it addressed him.

"State your name and business in this region," it said. Its voice was hard as the steel of his scimitars.

"I could ask you the same…" he responded warily.

"I asked first, and you're trespassing." There was a heavy accent now, he realized, but not one that the Dark Elf could recognize. He frowned underneath his cloak, and decided to see if he could draw some unwitting answers out of this thing.

"The Dale is free to all who travel it, and are prepared for the challenges it posses to invaders," he looked to see if there was any change in the creature that he could spot.

"You're inside our personal space, traveler… Now identify yourself." Nothing changed, no real change in the tone of voice, no mannerism or obvious body language shifts. Maybe this thing was mechanical.

It was at that moment that an icy wind came down and teased at the edge of his cowl. Drizzt was able to shift and catch it, but he knew that with the sun shinning at him, that some of his hair and his dark skin would have been spotted. He waited for the hate to form in the creature's stance, and for it to attack.

It was an attack that would never come. The thing just stood where it was, its hands by its side.

"I will not ask nicely again, your name and your business here." Well, it was getting a little testy after all.

The Drow sensed that further antagonizing of this thing would not have any benefit, while the cost of it would be a fight that he probably didn't need right now. Sighing, he pulled back his hood.

"Drizzt Do'Urden, ranger and scout of Ten Towns," he tried to keep his tone polite, just in case it was capable of understanding his tone of voice.

"Your reason for being here?"

The Dark Elf sighed a second time. "I come seeking a trio of Dwarves, one of them with a very distinctive red beard and a knack for seeking out fights that are not always his."

The creature remained silent for a moment. "May I ask why?" The accent was a little heavier this time, as if it was uncertain how to pronounce certain words.

"They are friends, and I am concerned for their well-being," he stated simply. He suddenly felt very nervous, about all these questions that pertained to Bruenor. Did the creature have his friend captive in his possession?

It remained silent for another moment, before it nodded to itself. "Follow me. We're taking your word for this right now. But know that the… Dwarf, and his comrades are under the protection of the UNSC. The slightest bit of aggression towards them will be met swiftly and decisively."

The thing turned around and took a few steps over to its device. It twisted the right handle, and stomped down on a stirrup like device, and a high pitched whine split the winter air. Drizzt's horse snorted, and he had to calm the beast as the transport took off over the snow.

A split second before it did, Drizzt got a good look at the black device on the soldier-creature's back. The design was strange, unlike anything he had seen before, but he did recognize one thing on it: a trigger. He'd seen something similar with a priest of Gond once. The man had promised to revolutionize society with the device he was building, make it to where the elite no longer horded such power over the common folk. Drizzt had thought that it was going to make society all the bloodier.

He was instantly on guard. There was something about this situation that seemed very much wrong now. Still, he supposed that he had no choice but to follow this soldier-creature. He needed to get Bruenor home, there was disturbing news that the Dwarf King needed to be made aware of.

* * *

It did not take them long to reach the _Forward Unto Dawn_, and the Master Chief was surprised at how calm the humanoid behind him seemed in regards to it. The others had reacted with a sense of awe and shock. This one, though, seemed to raise an eyebrow and retreated further into that cloak.

The Spartan was confused about why he hid beneath that hood, and had seemed alarmed when part of his face had been exposed. Was it possible that he was some sort of assassin sent after the Dwarf? He would have to be on his guard for any tricks.

"Cortana, are the others awake yet?" he asked as he drove the Mongoose onto the vehicle elevator platforms.

"Our guests are still catching forty winks. Also, Johnson and Orna have woken up since I informed you and the commander of the sensor ping," she said as the one called Drizzt brought his horse up onto the lift.

"Alright. Well our new arrival wants to see the Dwarf leader." The Spartan stepped off of the ATV as the elevator started to rise.

"I know, I was listening. I've got Johnson and the Arbiter both on guard duty, weapons hot in case anything funny goes on." Her tone was deadly serious now.

The elevator entered the primary motor pool area with a deafening clang that seemed to bother the alien behind him. The Chief cocked his head slightly at this. Evidence of sensitive hearing, perhaps?

"Leave your horse here. It will be seen to," he said, and causally pulled his assault rifle from his back. "This way," he motioned with his head. "Your… friend, is still asleep at the moment. He will be brought to you when he wakes up." The Spartan noticed that the humanoid seemed to be staring around at the Warthogs and the Scorpions with apparent disgust.

John admitted that he was rather confused. How was it possible that a native of a medieval level world would be familiar with things like tanks and assault vehicles? Theories fired back and forth in his mind.

Was it possible he was from a different society, one more advanced? If so, then where was it? Their sensors had detected nothing in the way of even industrial revolution era factories or the like, let alone evidence of a space faring society. Further, if that was the case, why was he wearing swords and riding a horse? He resolved to keep an extra eye on this individual. He was an unknown, even more than the others.

"Please," he said, "I must speak with Bruenor immediately. It concerns his ancestral homeland."

"Commander?" John asked into his suit's private communications systems.

"I'll… allow it, but I want a gun at his back. Johnson's got his carbine loaded up with stun rounds. If he so much as breathes on that Dwarf in a way I don't like, drop him."

"Understood ma'am," he said, and then switched his external speakers back on. "The commander has agreed to let you see him."

"Thank you," Drizzt gave a slight bow. The Master Chief merely nodded. The new translation system seemed to be working out okay.

It took them a minute or two to arrive at the barracks where the group had been sleeping. Orna was standing there, his plasma rifles gripped tightly in his hands and his mandibles weaving about in the air. He nodded as the Spartan approached, along with the native, and backed away from the door slightly. John stepped to the side as the door opened and saw that Johnson was in the back, in full armor and holding a loaded weapon, just as the commander had said.

"After you," the cyborg gestured with his assault rifle. The native frowned at him, but moved in anyway.

Spartan and Sangehili came in right behind, their weapons aimed center mass at his back. Drizzt moved forward until he was about four meters away from Bruenor's bed. The Dwarf was snoring loudly, his axe and shield by his bedside.

"That's close enough," the Master Chief said.

"Bruenor," Drizzt spoke, crossing his arms and staring down at the Dwarf. "Bruenor," he spoke a little more loudly. Finally raising his voice to a light shout, he managed to get the Dwarf up out of bed.

"Wha, huzzap!" his beard flew around him as he shook his head back and forth. Another voice moaned off to the side, and John noticed that the horned alien had been woken up as well. Bruenor blinked a few times, and then jumped up out of bed. "Drizzt!" he exclaimed, throwing an arm around the black skinned alien as best he could. "What in the hells are you doing here? Aren't ye' supposed to be in Silverymoon relaxing and enjoying the company of others?"

"I heard about the fireball that came down here, and came back to check on you. It seems that I have also found the source of the commotion," Drizzt glanced back over his shoulder.

Bruenor seemed to notice the other three for the first time, and let out an exasperated sigh. "Look," he said, holding up his hands, "I know he's a Drow, and I know what people think about them, but he's my friend, and you have my word as a King of Clan Battle-Hammer that he'll not do a thing to harm you, so please lower those wands o' yours."

The Spartan raised an eyebrow behind his helmet, and looked over to Orna, and then to the ODST at the back of the room.

"Uhh, what's a 'Drow?' " Johnson asked, though he still kept his MA5K carbine level on the taller alien.

The look on Bruenor's face would best be described as a study in comedic confusion. His jaw dropped open a bit, both of his bushy eyebrows shot upwards, and he twisted his head in a manner that seemed to the Chief to be screaming "You've got to be kidding me."

"You know, Drow, Dark Elves, butchers of the Underdark?" It was the horned girl who was speaking, and the Chief spared her a glance. She was sliding up out of her bed, her tail twitching back and forth in obvious agitation. "The black skinned devils that parents tell horror stories to their kids about in order to get them to go to bed on time?"

"You're speaking Greek to me," Johnson said as he shrugged.

The girl crossed her arms over her chest and just shook her head. "Look, I know you're not from around here and… hey! Wait a minute!" She shot John an accusing look. "Since when did you learn how to speak our language?"

"We listened." A good answer, the Spartan thought to himself. A partial truth, without giving away too much of their knowledge.

"Wait a minute, you mean to tell me you're this paranoid with everyone who comes on board your Spell Jammer?" Bruenor sputtered, looking at him with what appeared to be absolute disbelief.

"He was making a beeline for our ship, paused to investigate the battle from yesterday, took some weapons from it, and then stalled for time when asked what his business here was. For all we knew, he could have been some manner of assassin," Cortana said over the ship's communications systems. The natives just looked around for the source of the voice, but finding none, looked to the Chief and his two fellows. "We're very security minded here, given our sudden and very unexpected arrival on this planet, and that we know next to nothing about your world."

"You seem to know enough to summon demons and the like… though I suppose you could be from another plane," Bruenor scratched at his chin. Around him, the others were starting to awaken.

At the word "demon" the Master Chief noticed that Orna was looking at him, and then back at the Dwarf.

"He's a powerful warrior, the last you'd want as an enemy, but though we call him that, he's as human as your big friend," he nodded in the direction of the blond haired human.

"What?" Bruenor looked at the Arbiter, and just shook his head. "I'm not talking about him," he gestured towards John, and the Spartan shifted his stance slightly. "I'm talking about you… whatever you are."

"I don't think he's a demon, Battle-Hammer," the horned girl said, "he doesn't smell like one, for starters."

"Yes, I suppose you would know, Neeshka." The Dwarf glared over at the girl, his eyes narrowed, which John assumed to mean distrust.

"The irony here is thick enough to cut with my combat knife," Johnson remarked as the other Dwarves started to rise, along with the robed girl and the large human.

"Bruenor," Drizzt interrupted, drawing the Dwarf's attention back to him. "Mithril Hall has fallen."

"What!" the Dwarf exclaimed, his eyes bulging outwards. "How? When?"

"Just recently. The survivors returned to the stronghold just before I arrived… as to the means… it was an army of my people." He bowed his head. "They attacked in force, coming up from the lower tunnels. They were supported by Kobolds, Orcs, and Minotaurs. The survivors were few."

The Dwarf sat back down on his bed, shaking his head slowly. "Moradin's beard," he whipsered. "We just got the place back from the stinking Druegar." He rested his head in the palm of his left hand, and sighed again.

"Your people need you back, Bruenor." Drizzt glanced up and looked straight at the Master Chief. "These people have sheltered you, and for that they have our thanks, but we need to plan to take back the Hall before they can get too entrenched."

"Yer' right, Elf," he snarled suddenly, "none of those black skinned rats are going to be getting their lecherous hands on the halls of me fathers." He reached down and scooped up his armor to start putting it on.

The other two Dwarves started to do the same, and the elf walked over to the large human and began to converse with him. Apparently they knew each other too. John caught the name "Wulfgar" being used, and numbers were tossed around that the Spartan assume pertained to the strength of the tribe of Wulfgar's people.

"Ma'am, what are your orders?" the Master Chief asked Keyes.

"These people are the closest things that we have to allies at the moment. There's still a lot that we don't understand about this place. We need to gather intelligence, and the best way to do that is for us to start hobnobbing with the locals," she responded. "See if there's anything that we can do to help."

"Understood," he said, and then stepped forward. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

"That will not be necessary," Drizzt said, twisting and look at him with a glare. "This matter does not concern you."

"We're a little short on friends, and not sure how long we're going to be stranded here," Johnson said, a bit of his boot camp drawl slipping into his tone. "Besides, there some rather funky stuff we've seen here, and we'd like to know more about it so we don't get jumped by something unexpected."

"If you're going to plan on taking out a small army of Drow, you might actually want their help," the one called Neeshka said, her tail flicking back and forth in a manner that reminded the Master Chief of a cat. "It may have been the life threatening injuries messing with my head, but I seem to recall that their weapons were making quite a mess out of the Orcs."

The cyborg looked over at her again. There was something about her face that suddenly seemed familiar to him, like he had seen it before. Then he shook his head. There were more important things to worry about at the moment.

"And their little flying craft could at least get us back to the Clan faster. The sooner we mobilize, the better," Olthick added, palming his axe with a look of barely controlled rage.

"I agree," Bruenor said. "If it's not too much trouble, could we ask for your help in getting back home?"

Drizzt seemed to flinch at this, shifting in a manner that seemed as though he was ill at ease.

"Cortana," Keyes came over the commline, "Ready a Pelican with a transport Warthog."

"Will do, ma'am." The A.I. responded.

"Well, not to be rude," the robed girl said, "but I need to report back to my superiors, and I can show myself out." She took out a scroll as she spoke, and the Master Chief tensed. There was something in the air, like when he felt like he was being watched a few days ago.

There was a flash of light, and suddenly, she was gone. Orna fired reflexively, a bolt of bright blue plasma streaking out of his weapon and hitting the far end of the fall. The metal heated and some of it melted, pooling on the floor.

"What the hell was that?" Johnson growled, turning his gun to the Dwarf and the Dark Elf.

"Ummm, magic?" Neeshka offered.

The trio exchanged more looks. "As in, hocus-pocus, watch-me-pull-a-rabbit-out-of-my-hat magic?" Johnson said, but didn't lower his weapon.

There was a moment of what was best described as awkward silence.

"You guys, don't know what magic is?" Neeshka exclaimed. "First the Orcs, then the Drow, and now this… Hells, what's next?"

"They probably don't even know what you are, Hellspawn," Mortar said, chuckling to himself.

Neeshka's body language changed in an instant, she went from being confused to enraged. Her hands flew to her waist, only to realize that there was nothing there.

"And here I was hoping, that maybe, just maybe, that I might be able to go more than two days without someone trying to kill me over that," she hissed. Her red eyes were narrowed to a hateful glare, and her hands poised like claws.

"Calm down," The Master Chief said, stepping between the two of them. "No one's attacking anyone here."

Neeshka bowed her head and sighed, before she mumbled an apology. Her tail drooped and she crossed her arms again. "I should probably be going too, Lord Nasher's going to want a report on all of this… What happened to my old stuff?"

"It's been put through the cleaner," Johnson said, "Should be ready for you."

"Thanks…" she trailed off, and suddenly blinked. "I'm sorry, I just realized that I don't know your names."

"Ack," Bruenor swatted himself upside the head, "the lass's right. You've been rather gracious hosts to us, and we haven't even properly thanked you for it, or for pulling our arses outta that tight spot yesterday."

"Don't worry about it," the Master Chief said with a shake of his head. "We were trying to establish contact with you anyway."

"As for names," the door opened and Keyes stepped in, clad in standard marine armor that had been adapted for cold weather wear. "I'm Miranda Keyes, UNSC navy, and I'm the commander of this ship. "I believe some of you may have already met our A.I., Cortana."

"Pleasure to serve," Cortana's voice said. "The Pelican's ready for departure, commander."

Keyes just nodded, and then gestured to Orna.

"Orna Fulsamee, Arbiter of the Sangehili, soldier, born and bred." He stood a little higher as he said it, as if reminding himself of that helped to ease the burdens he carried.

"Sergeant Major Avery James Johnson, UNSC Marines, Orbital Drop Shock Trooper division," Johnson twisted slightly, so that they could see the patch on the left side of his armor: a black boot surrounded by red and white flames, with _Feet First Into Hell_ written below it in blazing lettering. Not that the Chief trusted them to be able to read English. "Thirty five year veteran of the Human-Covenant war."

Expectantly, all eyes suddenly fell upon the Spartan. The Chief mulled over what to say for a moment, before he finally spoke.

"Master Chief Petty Officer, First Class, Spartan-117, UNSC ONI branch, NavSpecWep subdivision." All of his technical details, nothing too personal.

"You got a name with all of those numbers and words?" Bruenor asked.

John looked at him for a second. "No."

"We just call him 'Chief,'" Johnson chuckled as he spoke.

The Dwarf King looked perplexed but shrugged after a moment. "Well, we don't want to impose on you too much, so let's just grab the Tiefling's gear and get a move on."

"Fine by me," Miranda said with a nod. "We've been meaning to establish contact with the surrounding area anyway." She turned to Neeshka. "I'm afraid that we were unable to fix your armor, but we do have a set of our own that we can give you," she motioned. "Come this way, we've got an armory were we can suit you up."

Neeskha scratched the back of her head, but then shrugged and followed. John motioned for the others to fall in behind him. They would head for the docking bay, and be ready to move out by the time that Keyes and the native girl returned.

* * *

Neeshka swore that if her eyes bulged anymore they would fall right out of her skull. Before her was row after row of suits of armor like Keyes was wearing, along with more of those strange, apparently non-magical weapons that the other three had made use of. She wondered briefly if she might be able to bring one back to Lord Nasher. The Many-Starred-Cloaks would certainly be interested in them.

If the Grey Cloaks and the Watch could be equipped like these people were, the Tiefling suspected that troubles with Luskan would decrease accordingly.

"This one should fit you," Keyes remarked, looking up at a number written above the suit. She started handing her various bits. Neeskha was curious about the gear, as it seemed surprisingly lightweight.

"Put these on first, over what you've got." Keyes, said, gesturing to a table at the far end. There was a white piece of material sitting there that had already been modified for her extra appendage.

As Neeshka slipped into it, it reminded her of some of the sealskin tunics that people took with them when exploring the dale. After that she had to swap out her black boots for ones that were more apt for blending in with the snow. And after that, it was time to don the armor itself

First came lower leg guards, that came up almost to her kneecaps, then ones that strapped across the outer sides of the hip. Vambraces and a type of armored gauntlet followed, and then armor for the knees and elbows. Next came the chest plate. It was a hinged piece of material that was coupled at the shoulder portions and came down over her head. Along each side were several armor plated straps that the commander showed her how to secure.

The Tiefling thought that it was a might bit uncomfortable at first, but then something weird happened. The inside of the armor seemed to warm up for a moment, and then molded to the shape of her torso. Neeshka gaped again. Now it felt almost like she was wearing a second skin. She noticed that the armor had a little bit of elasticity to it as well.

Lastly, there was the helmet. She frowned when Keyes showed it to her. "I don't know about this… commander," she gave a self conscious look at the floor. "Horns… you know."

Keyes just smiled with a look that said "trust me" and slid it on over her head. Neeshka felt the same strange material that was on the inside of the chestplate as it went on over her skull, which warmed up and allowed for a proper fit, horns and all. She looked down at the armor, which was a dull white in color, probably to minimize reflection, she thought. There was a faint bill going out over the front, somewhat like an exaggerated cap that some of the noblemen back in Neverwinter would wear. A darkened piece of material that looked like glass, but didn't feel like it, went over her eyes. Despite the helmet covering all of her face, she found that breathing was easy, not at all like she had expected.

For not knowing about magic, these strange new comers certainly had some pretty nifty tricks, the Tiefling decided. And they were treating her so nicely. It would almost be a shame to have to head back to Neverwinter, with all the glares that she would get, despite the things that she did for Nasher. She wondered if she should talk to Drizzt about how he managed things like that. He'd been up on the surface for longer than she'd been alive, after all. At least, if the tales that she'd picked up from other intelligence agents were to be believed.

"Set, and ready to go," Keyes said. "Now let's go grab the rest of your stuff."

* * *

&

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Weeeeelllll, I hope that was okay. I'm a little nervous about this one, truth be known (then again, when am I not?) At any rate, I hope you all liked it, and if you have something you'd like to ask, something you'd like to see happen, constructive criticism, or even a flame, don't hesitate to let me hear it.

Until next time, this is Red Mage 04, signing off, and wishing you all to have a safe and happy week.


	7. Chapter Six: New Guys On The Block

Chapter Six—New Guys on the Block

Hi again, everyone. Hope the world's treating you good. Sorry for the delay, but I've been preparing to move recently, and am now halfway across the state from where I used to be in preparation for Law School.

Thank you for your patience, and the time you've taken to read this little tale. I hope it continues to be worth your while.

To those of you who reviewed, I hope I was able to answer your questions well enough. If not, let me know, and I'll endeavor to correct it.

Lawyers- I don't own, you don't sue. I need the money anyway.

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&

* * *

**Chapter Six—New Guys on the Block**

"This the place?" Keyes asked over the commline. She was sitting in the pilot seat of the Pelican, staring out at a large cliff face with a single cave entrance that looked barely large enough for a human to enter.

Bruenor walked up next to her and stepped up on his toes to stare out of the cockpit screen. "Aye, that's the fortress."

"Smart place to set something up," Keyes remarked as she brought the ship down to a large plateau on the cliff face. She was able to carefully navigate the Pelican up to where the Dwarves, Drizzt (and his horse), and Wulfgar would be able to leap down onto the narrow pass below.

As they moved to leave, the Dark Elf paused for a moment. Hidden in the depths of his cloak, he stared over at Neeshka, and walked over to her.

"Your pardons, but I believe you mentioned Lord Nasher was your superior?" he asked, waiting for her reaction.

"Yeah, why?" she looked up at him and cocked her head slightly to one side.

"I believe that these belong to you," the Drow reached inside of his cloak and pulled out the twin blades he'd found earlier. "They are marked with Neverwinter's symbol, and I don't think Bruenor has anything like that, nor the Orcs," he finished with a light chuckle.

"Yeah, they are!" Neeshka leapt to her feet and eagerly grabbed both the long and short blade. "You've saved me quite a bit of trouble, I already owe Nasher quite a bit, I don't want to think about having to ask for new blades with my report."

"Pleasure to serve," Drizzt smiled and bowed, before hopping out of the back end of the Pelican.

The door sealed up behind him, and the interior temperature of the drop ship began to return to a more comfortable one. The red lights cast everything in an eerie, almost hellish manner, but for once, Neeshka wasn't put off or disturbed by it. The ship began to rise up into the air, and soon bolted across the open tundra and the frozen lakes. She busied herself for a moment, ducking down under her seat and pulling out a bag that the humans had given her. She opened it up and pulled out her weapons belt, quickly donning it and sliding her swords back into their sheathes.

"So where's this Neverwinter place that we need to take you to?" Keyes called out.

"Oh," Neeshka waved a hand dismissively and smiled behind her helmet. "I'm not expected back for a few more days, it can wait. You guys need to get to know this region first, anyway, and for that, you'll probably need a guide."

"You sure this won't get you into trouble?" Johnson asked, staring up from where he was wiping down that large weapon of his with an oiled rag.

"Positive, don't worry about me," she said with another wave of her hands. Then she leaned back and crossed her legs over one another. "The first place that you're going to want to drop by is probably Byrn Shander. It's the largest of Ten Towns, and the only one not located along one of the lakes. It's where their central authority ultimately lies." She paused for a moment to collect her thoughts. Did she really want to go into that place? It hadn't been pleasant the last time that she'd been there. Of course, these people had gone out of their way to help her, and they didn't know much about this place. She did kind of owe it to them.

"Something wrong?" The Master Chief asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"Nothing, just, well, haven't had good experiences in Ten Towns before," she responded with a shrug of her shoulders.

"What can you tell us about the place?" the creature-Orna, asked her.

"It's about the last bit of civilization on this end of the world. Of course, much of that depends on your definition of civilization. All things considered, its home to your usual unsavories. Almost everyone who lives there, first generation, at least, has a criminal record a mile long."

"That the voice of experience talking there?" Johnson asked suddenly, looking up at her.

"Yes, actually. Used to be a thief, bit off more than I could chew finally, and now I'm working for the Neverwinter government. Lord Nasher is nothing if not efficient." She shrugged again. "Before I went there, though, I tried out Ten Towns. Let's just say that for some rogues, even the edge of civilization isn't enough."

"What exactly did you steal?" Johnson was shaking his head in disbelief.

"It's my… heritage. I'm a Tiefling… a Planetouched." Despite the fact that two of the three individuals in front of her had their faces covered, she realized they were staring at her blankly. "My Grandfather was a demon, well, devil actually. Baazetu to be precise."

The trio exchanged glances and then stared back at her.

"Normally, I would ask how that's possible, but I have come to believe that this place is just crazy enough to allow for it." The ODST leaned back and sighed. "So I'm guessing that the medieval mindset is that you're pretty much evil incarnate."

"How'd you guess? And what do you mean by 'Medieval?'" The Tiefling raised her eyebrow behind the strange piece of clear material that covered her eyes.

"History," the Master Chief said. "Your civilization is in a technological time span that our own went through, a little more than fifteen hundred years ago. The mindset towards creatures of potentially otherworldly origins was not pleasant."

The Tiefling whistled to herself. Two thousand years, and they were this advanced? For not having magic, they moved pretty fast.

"A question, if you don't mind," asked a voice from the Chief; but it wasn't actually his. It was that of the other woman on the ship, Cortana. "I was curious about that magic stuff that you mentioned. Would you mind explaining it to me?"

"Well, you'd be better off talking to an actual mage, but I'll tell you what I can."

"Interesting…" Cortana trailed off. "I need to think about this. Commander, would it be too much to ask for you to try and acquire some samples of magical equipment or crafts while out in the field?"

"I'm not exactly sure how we'd come by them, Cortana, but if I can, then I will," Keyes responded.

"Thank you," she said. And with that, she clicked out of the commline.

John was left to contemplate what he had been told. All logic in his mind, all reason, rallied against it, spoke of it as being impossible. How could one conjure up flame and ice with mere words? Was there really such a power? Or was it all some trick? Smoke and mirrors designed to keep the ignorant in the dark and in their place. And further, if it was true, how might one tap into it? What were its applications, its limits? If one ran afoul of one of these mages, how might one stop them? If they were a potential enemy, he needed to know how to kill them.

"How do you stop a spell-caster?" He asked the girl.

"What do you mean?" Neeshka looked at him coolly.

"If you were fighting one, how would you kill it?" He stared at her behind his visor, leaning forward a little bit more and propping his head up on his right fist.

"Well, it's kind of hard to get close to stab a wizard when he's chucking around fireballs and lightning bolts, but if you can do this, they're not much on melee combat. All that time burying their noses in books doesn't leave many hours for practicing self defense." She giggled a bit. "But most of them realize this, and the smart ones have either a stone skin spell prepped and ready, or have body guards to keep people away from them while they work."

"How does this 'stone skin' spell work?" he double checked to make certain that his helmet cam was recording all of this, it would be invaluable to future conflicts if a mage showed up.

"Just what the name implies. Turns the mage into a walking statue. Stops most attacks dead." Neeshka stretched out for a bit, sliding back further into her seat. "But the spell does wear off after a few minutes, or you can overwhelm the magic by whacking them enough times."

"Does it matter where you hit them, or how hard?"

"Sometimes, but not normally," she said with a shake of her head.

Good, John thought to himself. That meant they would still be vulnerable to his weapons. "Any other weaknesses?"

"Well, casting their spells requires a great deal of concentration. If they get disturbed, it could fizzle, or worse, backfire." She said, and then rubbed at the chin of her helmet. "Oh yeah, they can also get so absorbed in their spell casting that they forget to watch behind them, or focus on anything but their target. It's usually another reason why the smart ones use body guards."

John logged that away for further study. Any further questions, however, were cut off by the commander.

"We're about five clicks away from the town. I don't want to spook the locals too badly, so we'll unload the Warthog and go in that way—that way we can get out fast if things turn south. Cortana, I want you to take over and take the Pelican up to twenty thousand meters once we're away, so that we don't cause any more hysterics than we have to."

"Aye-Aye, ma'am," the construct replied.

The Pelican's rear hatch opened smoothly, spilling white light and cold air into the troop compartment again. The drop ship dove towards the ground, halting about five meters above it. Up in the cockpit, Keyes flipped a switch that turned off the magnets holding the Warthog in place, and it dropped to the ground.

"Who's driving?" Johnson asked.

"Chief will," Keyes replied as she came to the rear of the ship, a shotgun and an assault rifle slung over her back. "Neeshka rides shotgun, and the rest of us take the back. Now move out, troopers."

John was the first one down the ramp. He leapt to the ground, making a deep impression in the ground with his boots. Combat instincts kicked in, and though the Pelican's sensors had detected nothing in the vicinity of their LZ, he had never fully trusted machines… aside from Cortana of course. Still, his mark one eyeballs, and mark six macrobinoculars confirmed the sensors' accuracy. He slapped his BR-55 over his shoulder and piled into the driver's seat of the Warthog.

Neeshka stood in the snow with her new UNSC duffle bag slung over her shoulder as Johnson and the others piled into the rear portion of the light recon vehicle, which held seating for six. The Spartan stared at her, and then realized that she wasn't sure where to go. He reached over and tapped the seat next to him.

"Shotgun," he clarified.

"Oh, okay." She leapt up and clambered in as he fastened a heavy duty safety harness.

"Buckle up, it'll keep you from bouncing around," he pointed the seatbelt system out to her.

She nodded and then did as instructed.

"Why do you call it shotgun?" she asked. "This seat, I mean."

"Holdover from the late nineteenth century back on our homeworld," Johnson said as he gripped a safety bar in the back. "Coach drivers used to keep a man next to them, usually armed with a shotgun to try and ward off thieves. The name stuck."

"I see," Neeshka said.

Cortana picked the Pelican back up, and it was soon out of sight. That task accomplished, Chief placed his hands on the steering wheel. Built in biometrics confirmed him as an authorized user, and the vehicle started up. He tested the accelerator a few times, before he put the LRV in drive. The tires spun for a second, then caught, and they shot off towards Byrn Shander.

A loud, startled scream echoed through the tundra as Neeshka grabbed a hold of whatever she could.

* * *

In the early morning chill, most of the guards of Byrn Shander were huddled around the fires of their watch houses, only occasionally bothering to look out into the tundra that surrounded their communities. Thus, they were confused for a moment when a loud noise the likes of which they'd never heard reached their ears. Grumbling, they grabbed their weapons and emerged out into chill.

They stopped dead in their tracks and gaped at the sight that met their eyes. It was a large wagon like device, pulled by no creature that they could see, and covered in some manner of armor. They steadied their grips on their weapons, and tried to gather their courage. However, that faltered when they saw what clambered out of it. The first thing to hit the ground was a mountain of a monster, half again their size. It walked upon cloven feet, and was covered in some kind of plate armor. Others joined it, these ones looking like humans, but clad in protective gear the likes they'd never seen before—though one had a tail. Then the wagon went quite, and out came the largest man they'd ever seen… if it was a man at all. He stepped up behind the other three, his strange helmet looking right at them.

The Master Chief fought the urge to shake his head. He was used to getting looks due to the fact that he was a Spartan, but this was getting old, fast. He was tired of drawing stares.

Neeshka walked forward then, taking off her helmet and identifying herself to the guards. Unfortunately, all that seemed to do was to put them more on guard. Their spears were pointed straight at her, and the Master Chief frowned. His hands reached for his P-60. The small sub-machinegun was loaded with stun rounds that would be sufficient to knock the wind out of a person and certainly leave them on their backside, but wouldn't usually leave anything beyond bruises. He carefully unlatched the gun from his hip, just in case he found that he needed it. He also took a split second to figure out the best vectors for fire if things should go sour.

"Crossbows hidden in the alcoves of the towers," Johnson whispered over a private commline.

"Noticed them on the approach," John whispered back. "How many soldiers do you think they'd have here?"

"Can't be more than a few at most, considering this weather. I'd reckon a dozen at absolute maximum. Plus, these guys seem more like glorified militia. They weren't even watching the gate when we pulled up."

John had noticed that too, and shared the sergeant's opinion. His soldier's instincts were telling him there was a real lack of discipline here. Their jitteriness was understandable. Their lack of an alert guard, and poor manner in which they'd kept their watch was not. A part of him felt disgusted. The rebels he'd dealt with in Operation Trebuchet, his first mission, more than thirty five years ago, had been more alert and aware than this.

"Look, just go get Casius, he's got guests," Neeshka jerked her thumb over her shoulder at the group behind her. "They'd like to speak with him about a possible mutually beneficial arrangement."

"And leave you here to work your whiles on the other guards, I don't bloody well think so!" one of the guards exclaimed, jabbing his spear a few inches closer to her. "You'll be staying right here until we decide what to do with you."

"Right, like I'm really going to waste my time cutting down a few rent-a-guard mooks. Seriously, use that thing between your ears for something more than a place to hang your skull cap." Neeshka's tail was twitching again, something the cyborg understood only happened when she was angry, or irritated at someone. Possibly a combination of both in this case. "That is of course, assuming there is something other than air between them."

"You filthy little demon-whore! I ought to cut your tail off and strangle you with it!" the man was clearly incensed, but still kept his distance from her. Was fear of her heritage truly that strong? The Chief wondered.

"Commander, should I attempt to intervene?" he asked, his eyes darting up to the crossbow wielding soldiers on the top of the wall.

"Stay ready in case things turn ugly, but hold off for now," Keyes said.

The Chief noticed something approaching. It was covered in a heavy green cloak, possibly woolen, and standing a little more than three feet tall. What made him really curious was that in spite of the fact that his temperature gauge was telling him that the outside environment was in the single digit negatives, this individual was barefoot.

"Someone's either drunk, asking for frostbite, or pretty hardcore," Johnson muttered as he took note of the newcomer.

"I say, what is all this commotion about?" the voice was a little higher in pitch than a human's, but clearly a male, the Chief noted. "Some of us are trying to have a good meal to take our minds off this abysmal cold."

"With all due respect, Councilman Regis, this is the business of this town, not Lonely-Wood's," another guard said. "We have a demon-spawn trying to get admission through the gates, and the Gods only know what along with her." He gestured to the Chief and his compatriots.

"Look, I know you're probably not going to believe me, but trust me when I say that if these guys wanted to kill you, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now." Neeshka began to tap her foot in the snow. This got her nowhere, so finally, she let out a growl, and just stamped her boot into the ground. "You know what, fine. I'll be certain to let Lord Nasher know you refused entrance to one of his agents. I'm sure that'll go over well. And then we'll see just how much it comes back to bite you when he decides to cut this place off from his trade routes!"

"You're bluffing," the one closest to her growled. "Like Nasher would really let a Tiefling into his service."

"Nasher is smart enough to recognize talent and use it when he sees it, less than can be said of you lot. Seriously, when's the last time you had that scale armor taken in for maintenance? A goblin knife could probably sheer right through it." Neeshka gestured towards their mail.

Zooming in with his visor, the Chief did note bits of rust forming, as well as a few missing scales. The chain-mail coifs that some of the guards wore were also badly in need of repair, with links that were loosely connected—a dangerous, possibly fatal, design flaw—or missing altogether.

Still, Neeshka had mentioned that few people came to this region of the world by choice, and in combination with the evidence for the battle they'd discovered, offered a possible excuse for the lack of discipline and complete disregard for proper care of equipment. Perhaps there were few "true" soldiers up here that were willing to instruct people on how to fight? Perhaps the main army had also been devastated in the attack, and these were all that were left? He mulled the ideas over in his head while he looked at the guards as they continued to shout back and forth. One of the crossbowmen on the upper right wall had his weapon pointed right at the Tiefling, and seemed a might bit eager to use it, given how badly his finger was shaking.

The Master Chief frowned again, and slowly lifted his SMG. The targeting reticule on his visor followed the gun's smart link, and glowed red when it settled on the man. He didn't seem to be aware of the threat, or redirect his attention in any manner towards the Spartan, so the Chief found himself forced to settle for keeping an eye on him.

"Now, now, everyone just calm down," the one called Regis said. Chief spared him a glance, noticing that he'd shifted his stance and that a large pendant was now visible through his cloak. There was a stone in it. A ruby or a garnet, he couldn't tell, and it seemed to catch the light in a most peculiar fashion.

Still, he shook his head and focused back on the men on the wall.

"Johnson, keep your eyes focused on the walls," he whispered.

"Roger that," the ODST said, his hand resting on the MA5K on his hip.

"Well, now I suppose I can let you through after all," the guard stated in a much more cheery manner than before.

For a moment, the Spartan wasn't certain that he'd heard correctly. He played the statement over again in his head. He heard no trace of sarcasm or malice, and it didn't sound as if the subliminal translation program that Cortana had uploaded into their minds had suddenly malfunctioned. Confused, he spared a glance towards the gate. The man in question was actually bowing before Neeshka and the newcomer, one arm splayed out towards the town behind them in welcome. He cocked an eyebrow. Something very weird was going on here. Perhaps some magic, like Neeshka mentioned earlier. If so, why didn't the guards have some sort of detector to warn them? Or training to resist it?

He'd have to ask the Tiefling later.

For that matter, he suddenly wondered if they could trust this Regis fellow. They mentioned the word councilor, that implied a high ranking politician, or as close to high ranking as one could get in this neck of the woods.

"This way, quickly," the small alien gestured to them.

"Come on, its okay," Neeshka said, slipping her helmet back on.

"Commander?" John asked, his SMG still out and at the ready.

"I think we're in the clear for the moment," Keyes said. "Move out."

The group began to move towards Regis, who threw the hood back on his cloak, revealing a surprisingly human-like face with brownish-blond hair. Some kind of a midget, perhaps? He made haste to cover his stone back up and beckoned to them again.

"Apologies for that, but I need to get you to Casius in a hurry if you want to see him," the small councilor said. "Everyone and their mother knows what this pendant can do these days, and as soon as those lugs snap out of it, they'll be none too happy about it."

"You're being awfully helpful," Keyes commented. "And it's my experience that people don't usually extend courtesy like that without expecting a payoff."

"My payoff will come in the spring, my dear lady," Regis said with a bow. "Those idiots may not realize it, but this region depends on trade with Neverwinter and Luskan to survive, and I happen to be heavily invested in both. I'd rather not see my finances ruined, thank you very much."

"Still seems just a tad convenient for me, considering that we're not exactly blending in with a crowd," Johnson spoke up, and gestured to Orna.

"I'm friends with a Dark Elf, and have stared down demons, dragons, crazed Barbarians, Trolls, and power mad wizards. Trust me, I've seen more than my fair of weird stuff," Regis retorted.

As they made their way down the streets, the Master Chief took note of the town. Most of the houses were stone, with either wooden or thatch roofing that appeared to be made from dried grass. It would keep them warm during this time of the year, relatively speaking. The placement of the housing was somewhat random, though. In some places, it would be neatly planed out, in others, like someone had just up and decided to build there, with no thought given to coordination. The town must not have been built all at once, then.

There were a few guards standing out in the cold, hovering over fires for the most part. Some civilians were out in the street as well. All of them, however, dropped what they were doing and stared at the group that was approaching the center of the town. He saw grips on weapon hilts and spear shafts tighten, and the humans chewed uneasily on their lips. The Spartan would have preferred a more low-key approach, but sometimes, overt displays and intimidation had their advantages.

A few minutes later, the large council building came completely into view. The group exchanged glances, as they saw it. Someone had put thought into constructing this building. Its walls were thick and reinforced, the windows that were present were small, and along the top he could see a multitude of slits, possibly murder holes for snipers. The Master Chief wondered for a moment who might have built it, and then followed Regis up the steps.

"Now, Kemp, I understand your frustration, but you cannot just have your people raid the ships of Bremen whenever they happen to cross over to Targos' section of the lake."

The Chief heard the voice through the heavy oaken doors in front of him. He paid it little mind though. He was more occupied in ascertaining the defenses of this place. The hallway leading into the council room was fairly wide; large enough, in fact, for him, Orna, and Johnson to all stand side-by-side with room to spare. It made for an impressive entrance, but a narrower hallway would be better suited for defensive purposes. The guards here seemed better though, and kept an alert eye on the group in addition to maintaining better equipment: chain mail, well kept, an arming sword for each of them, and a halberd. However, there had been no attempt to deprive the Chief, or anyone else, of their weapons.

His thoughts were interrupted by the shouting of another individual, presumably this Kemp fellow.

"That region of Maer Dualoon was promised to us by the treaty we signed six years ago! I will not stand for its violation!"

"Yet that doesn't seem to stop the people of Targos from coming over to our region," someone else said, and a loud banging followed.

"If one of our ships just happens to travel into your territory, I can assure you that it was by accident," the other replied, his voice held a sneering undertone to it, and the Master Chief frowned. This might get ugly.

Regis carefully opened the doors, and the Master Chief was greeted with the sight of a circular room with ten tables set up in it. An old, gray haired man sat at the center one, his attention divided between the other two tables nearest him, currently occupied by the two shouting men. One was a portly fellow, completely bald, while the other was an armed individual who looked like a seasoned fighter. Both were red faced and their eyes screamed in rage. They stopped going at each others throats when they realized they were not alone.

The reactions between the men varied between shock, fear, and outrage.

"What is the meaning of this, Regis?" the old man asked, his hands carefully folded in front of him. "We agreed to hear you this afternoon, after this matter between Bremen and Targos had been settled."

"My apologies for the interruption, Councilman Casius," Regis said with a bow. "But there has been a situation at the gates. These individuals wish to meet with you regarding some negotiations."

"You brought a demon into the council chamber?" the thinner man roared. The voice matched the one called "Kemp" earlier. "You miserable little Halfling, I should…" he trailed off, too overcome by his rage to continue.

The Master Chief looked over at Orna and smirked behind his helmet. The Sangehili was groaning and shaking his head, his lower mandibles clicking together. It was a refreshing change of pace, not being the one that everyone referred to as a creature of hell.

"They have it quite tamed, my fellow councilmen," Regis said. "At any rate, I felt it worth the risk. The guards were being obstinate, and with this one," he gestured towards Neeshka, "being one of Lord Nasher's agents, I believed that it warranted your attention. She was threatening that Nasher would cut us off his trade routes if we did not comply."

The old man frowned, and Chief watched his face intently. There was irritation present on his face, the way that his lips were drawn tight, and his face and the way his brow furrowed. Finally, he sighed, and motioned for them to go ahead.

"My apologies for the disturbance, Councilmen," Commander Keyes said as she stepped forward and removed her helmet. "We will try not to keep you too long. I am Commander Miranda Keyes of the United Nations Space Command, and I apologize about any inconveniences or alarms we may have caused to the region by our unexpected arrival here a week ago."

"You mean to tell us that you are responsible for the large fireball that appeared in our skies?" Casius had folded his hands and was tapping them against the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, Councilman Casius." Keyes nodded. "That was our ship. It was damaged in heavy combat with an enemy force, and we had been drifting for some time before we were able to land it here."

The old man pursed his lips slightly, and then spoke. "I see… this is quite a bit to understand. We do not get Spell Jammers in this world very often, let alone in this region of Faerun. What exactly is it that you are asking of us… commander?"

"In short, we're stranded here and years, perhaps decades, from any help that our comrades might send to us. We're blind about this place. Our sensors were able to get a lay of the planet and its environmental regions as we came down, as well as mark population centers. However, we know next to nothing about local customs, traditions, balances of power and potential warring factions. In short, we want information."

There were several seconds of silence, and Casius appeared to be deep in thought. He spoke after a minute or so.

"An interesting plight, Commander, one that I am not unsympathetic to. Under normal circumstances, I would gladly give you free access to our archives and maps. However, the past season has been difficult. Most of our men are dead in the field, and we need everything we can get to survive… what can you offer us in return?" Casius raised his eyebrows and looked dead at the commander.

"What do you need?" she asked in return.

"To be frank, everything. Most of our soldiers are dead, and those left are either under equipped or under-trained. There is also the issue of transport. We have recently allied ourselves with the Plainsmen tribes… well, what's left of them at any rate," Kemp snorted suddenly, and shook his head. Casius shot him a glare that could have blasted through battle-plate. "They have recently gained access to the hoard of a slain dragon, Icing-Death. However, they have no means of rapidly raising it out of the beast's lair, and getting it to us in a timely manner. In return for the gold and jewels, we are supposed to help supply them with food. But while we have the stores, we have no way of quickly getting it to them."

Keyes bowed her head slightly for a moment. "I do not know what we could do to help your soldiers. Your way of combat is not ours. Transportation, however, is something that we can help you with. We have several transports that would be capable of rapidly ferrying supplies and payment shipments to and from the tribes." She paused again, and looked the Councilman dead in the eyes. "And while we cannot help you train your troops, we can assist with the defense of this region. We have means by which to spot raider movements from several dozen kilometers off… approximately a hundred miles in any given direction."

"And how many of there are you?" Kemp spoke up.

"Just the four of us," Keyes said, looking over at him.

"Then what the hell good are you?" he sneered. "Four… warriors, are not enough to turn any battle."

"You wouldn't be saying that if you'd seen them in action, Councilman," Neeshka said, smirking at him. "And I have. Trust me, they're not big on quantity, but when you've got weapons like they do, you don't really need it."

"No one asked you, demon wench," Kemp said with a glare. It was a glare that Neeshka was all too happy to return.

"That is enough, Kemp," Casius shouted, and then turned his attention back to Keyes. "You offer much in return for little. Pardon me if I ask what the catch is."

"One man's trash is another man's treasure," Keyes replied. "I told you, we have no information on this region, aside from the topography, and population concentrations. There are things that our scanners can't tell us. We need your history and tomes for that."

"And how quickly can your 'transports' move?" The Master Chief noticed that his voice had a certain eagerness to it, and he gave a tight lipped grin. They were approaching a perfect Nash's Equilibrium. Both parties walked away happy.

"Fast enough to move anywhere inside of the Ten Towns region in minutes. Out to where the tribes are and back, not counting loading time, might take as little as twenty, grand total."

Casius arched another eyebrow at this. Then he frowned and tapped his fingers together. At last he sighed, and leaned back slightly.

"That is a bold claim, Commander. I am inclined to take it with a grain of salt. I don't want to be duped, no offense. Would you mind terribly if a few of Bryn Shander's guards went along for the initial trip? This would enable them to oversee the proper exchange of goods, as well." He twisted his head slightly, giving her a pointed look.

"Of course." Keyes nodded. "Say the word, and we'll be ready to move."

"It will have to wait just a moment, I need to have this taken care of first," he gestured to Kemp and the other councilman. "In the meantime, Regis, as a show of good faith, would you be so kind as to escort our guests to the archives?"

"It will be my pleasure," Regis responded. "We'll take our leave now, if that is okay, and let you lot get back to sorting out those border problems. Sorry again to intrude."

The door had scarcely shut behind them when the shouting between Kemp and the other Councilman resumed.

"Is it always like that?" Johnson gestured towards the door with his thumb.

"Always?" Regis chuckled heartily. "My good man, that is a good day!"

* * *

The archives of Bryn Shander were not exactly the largest on the planet, but they looked as if they could present a useful amount of information to them. Of course, they couldn't yet read the language, but Cortana was already working on that. The A.I. figured that in a matter of hours, she would have the entirety of it decoded.

Several maps had already been scanned by the Master Chief's recording devices, detailing towns, cities, and various hazards, natural and man-made, within six hundred miles. Currently, he was talking with Regis about the local political situations.

"Well, like I said, Nasher is usually a hard bargainer, and there are days I'm certain he's got a parade rod shoved up his rear, but better dealing with him than with Luskan," the Halfling said with a pointed look.

"What do you mean?" The Spartan cocked his head.

"Well, around these parts, we have a assaying: Beware a Bauldurian bearing gifts, for there is fine print attached. Beware a Neverwinter man with a smile, because it means he's got an unpleasant job for you. And beware a Lusakan with his arms open to embrace you, because it means that he's getting ready to stab you in the back." Regis finished with a chuckle.

"I see." The cyborg logged that away in his brain. It was, of course, possible that there were two sides to this story. "What else can you tell me about Luskan?"

"Well, the city is run by its archmages, who operate out of the Hosttower. Each one has a few puppet captains under his or her control. This wouldn't be a bad setup, except they're constantly making power plays and scheming against their compatriots." Regis rolled his eyes and shook his head. "This trickles down through the ranks, and having soldiers openly clash is the streets is not exactly an uncommon sight. The citizenry are made up of pirates, thieves, and a few poor sods who are just trying to survive."

Evidence of a highly unstable political situation, John thought. That was something they could use to their advantage if they had to. Provide information to the right individual, or attack the right target, and it could set off a chain reaction that could destabilize the region and make the place vulnerable. Hopefully, it wouldn't come to that, but one of the first things that Mendez had taught them was to always analyze everyone and everything as a potential enemy, and know exactly what to do to take it down. That way, when and if they did turn on you, you were prepared.

"And what can you tell me about the other regions on this map?" he gestured up to a large one hanging on the wall.

"Well, there's Nesime," Regis pointed to a small speck of a town bordering a large, swampy region. "You practically have to be crazy to live there, considering it's on the edge of the Evermoors."

"The swamp?" The Master Chief asked. "What's so dangerous about it?"

"Better to ask what isn't, the list will be shorter." The Halfling moved over to a bookshelf, and muttered quietly to himself while searching through it. After a moment or two, he yanked out a small black book. "This can give you more details. It covers most of the hostile species that live there." He paused for a moment. "The other major place of interest is Silverymoon. That city is something of a melting pot, home to people, creatures, and cultures from all over Faerun. They pride themselves on their lack of prejudices, and openly welcome any who come to their community."

The Chief frowned. That sounded like a good way to invite in agent-provocateurs. This in turn implied a powerful military capability in order for them to have survived this long. Either that or they were exceptionally politically savvy.

His thoughts were cut off by Cortana coming over his exterior speakers.

"Commander," she said. "We have a problem."

"What is it, Cortana?" Keyes said as she looked up from the map she was pouring over.

"The UAV you had me dispatch to watch the Plainsmen tribes is detecting movement from those Orc things, heading right towards them."

"Numbers?"

"Oh, it's a full scale warband, I count close to two thousand of them, along with several hundred auxiliary units that appear to be human."

There was a moment of staring amongst each other, before the group rushed out of the archives.

* * *

&

* * *

Well, that's all of it. Sorry again for the delay, and I hope its good enough to save me from the torch and pitchfork wielding mob that is no doubt trying to hunt me down at my new address.

As always, feed back, especially constructive criticism, is welcomed with open arms.

Until next time folks, please, stay safe, and have a wonderful day.


	8. Chapter Seven: It Begins

Updating to you live from the heart of Tropical Storm Fay!

Hehe, hello everyone. Mother Nature is voicing her distaste at my choosing lawyering as a possible profession by dropping a large storm on my head. Never knew she could be so… up front and direct, she's usually much more subtle. Alright, poor taste and timing, I know, I know.

At any rate, ignoring the thumping of stray acorns and pine cones off the window of my apartment windows, things are going good here. My classes are making me nervous, but that could just be first week jitters and my schedule getting thrown to the wind by this storm. I've got a nice, large chapter ready for you guys here. I hope you like it, but I'm really worried about it, as I feel it might be more than a little over the top.

Let me also extend my thanks to everyone for reading this chapter, and the story itself, so far. To those of you who have reviewed, I hope that you've gotten good answers to your questions, and I am honored by the time you've taken to tell me what you think. For those of you who don't have accounts, if you want me to respond, leave me an e-mail address, and I'll see what I can do.

Thanks again, and I pray you find this chapter to be up to par.

* * *

&

* * *

**Chapter Seven- It Begins.**

* * *

The doors of the archive burst open and the group poured out, Johnson in the front and the Master Chief bringing up the rear.

"Wait!" Regis called out. "What's going on? What's happening?"

"The Plainsman tribes are about to come under assault," the Spartan growled. "Cortana, ETA on the Pelican?"

"Bringing it down now, it'll be at your position in five seconds." The A.I. responded. "Should I mobilize the other one? That transport Warthog won't do much good."

"Affirmative," Keyes said as they rounded another corner, shooting past startled guards and merchants. "Load one up with a fifty, and have the Pelican meet us at the camp perimeter."

As they approached the main entrance hall, John could hear screaming from outside. The drop ship had probably scared half the town into hiding. Still, it was a small price to pay considering the circumstances. The guards had already opened up the doors to see what the commotion was about, and one of them had fallen on his rear end in surprise at the hovering Pelican before them.

"Move, move, move!" Keyes shouted, scrambling out the door and up into the cargo bay.

"Wait!" Regis cried, and rushed up behind the Master Chief, a couple of guards in tow behind him.

Johnson and Neeshka were right behind her, followed by Orna and the Master Chief, and finally the three natives. The doors sealed up behind them, and they were already leaving the town behind when Keyes sat down in the cockpit seat.

"Cortana, release it to manual control. We're making a pit stop first. That human, Wulfgar, will probably want to know that his people are under attack."

"Aye-Aye, commander." Cortana said. "Warthog loading in progress, the other Pelican should be arriving at about the same time that you do. Just be quick about warning this guy."

It did not take long to arrive back at the cave where they had dropped off Bruenor and the others. Keyes spun the ship around, putting it right up next to the hole.

"Bruenor and Wulfgar are personal friends of mine, I'll be back a just a moment," Regis said.

With that, the Halfling bolted out of the bay and onto the rocks below. He was inside the cave in seconds.

* * *

"Our first moves are in action, many things hinge upon this moment… now, are you sure you have told us all you can about these… plane walkers?"

The voice was coming from a hooded man, clad in a flamboyant purple robe. Hands that were withered by age were tucked away into the sleeves, and he moved so quietly when he walked, that it was as if he was floating upon air, rather than moving upon the ground.

"Yes, master," Alicia bowed before him. "It is as I told you. Trying to read from them was like trying to throw eggs at a brick wall, especially from the green one." She paused for a moment. "There is something different about him, something that is otherworldly in its own right."

"Very well. We will have to trust in our… allies to deal with them. What of their Spell Jammer?"

"It appears to be somewhat damaged, milord. I do not think it is capable of moving at the moment." She bowed again.

"But they can still move the smaller ones, yes?" He got another nod is response from her, and reached up to scratch at his withered chin. He frowned for a moment, and then started to pace back and forth throughout the chamber. "I need to commune with the others about this bit of information. You have done well, though, my apprentice. Something that shall not be forgotten, I assure you."

"My lord is gracious…"

* * *

The Pelican screamed through the air, leaving a double shockwave behind it. In the cargo hold, a group of twenty warriors and soldiers awaited the coming battle.

They were an odd mix, brought together by this event, the Master Chief thought to himself. The Dwarves that Bruenor had brought with him were busy double-checking their many weapons and their armor, while Wulfgar kept palming the handle of his hammer. The one called Drizzt just sat over at the far end, deep in thought.

The Master Chief busied himself with checking the weapons lockers above the seats, going over supplies. A few BR-55s, some MA6Cs and Bs, the latter of which he had armed himself with to complement the longer ranged battle rifle he carried, as while its bullets were somewhat shorter and less powerful than the C's, it could carry a clip that was twice as large. In a battle that was pretty much going to define "target rich environment" that would be invaluable. There were also SMGs, pistols, shotguns, and as he looked towards the back of one of the compartments, a Mark-1 Spartan Laser.

"Coming up on the camp, looks like this is going to be a hot LZ," Keyes remarked.

"Second Pelican's coming in right behind you ma'am. I'll keep an eye out for targets of opportunity, but aside from the Warthog delivery, I'm not sure how much good I'll be able to do." Cortana spoke up.

"If you need to, just land the ship on top of them," Johnson chuckled.

Then the doors started to open. The now mid-morning light made the sun glare harshly off the snow. The Master Chief's visor polarized more to compensate for this, and he brought up his BR-55. He found a target, and squeezed the trigger. The Orc slumped to the ground, its head vaporized by the impact of the round. He fired twice more as he stepped off the ramp. One of his targets was caught in the chest, nearly tearing it in half and leaving a dinner-plate sized hole in its center. The other one was hit just a few centimeters above the groin. It fell to the ground, blown in half at the waist, pawing and feebly reaching out for the remnants of its legs and guts, as if it thought that by grabbing and holding onto those it might be able to save its life.

The arrival of the Pelicans was anything but subtle. Both Barbarians and Orcs alike panicked and wavered at the sight of the apparently magical constructs. However, the Plainsmen seem to be put somewhat at rest when they noticed that they were belching forth Dwarven solders, and more importantly, Wulfgar. The mighty barbarian charged down the ramp, his enormous war hammer cocked back behind him.

"Tempos!" he screamed, rushing at an Orc warrior and throwing the hammer end over end.

The Orc had just enough time for his eyes to widen in surprise and to try and turn to run. All this did was allow for the mighty hammer to catch it squarely between its shoulder blades. Armor shattered, bones were crushed, and flesh ripped from its sinews. The Orc was dead before it hit the ground. Then the hammer reappeared in his hand. And he twisted to face another, only to see a flash of blades and second, bloody smile appear in the brute's neck.

"One for me, and one for you!" Drizzt exclaimed, laughing as he threw himself at the largest group of Orcs that he could find.

Wulfgar understood the humor. It was Drizzt's way of distracting himself from the death that was soon to surround them. He heard the bark of one of the weapons that the strange humans were using, and watched an Orc spill its guts all over the landscape. Still, he wondered if they would be enough. There were less than three hundred of his people here that would have to defend the women and children against a force that apparently numbered in the thousands. Powerful though these new warriors might be, they could not be everywhere at once.

Johnson and Keyes were making their way towards the anti-infantry warthog that Cortana had brought with the other Pelican. Though only a light reconnaissance vehicle, the tri barreled, twelve-point-seven millimeter chain gun on the back of the craft would enable them to hopefully help route this attack force in short order.

The Helljumper reached out and cycled the weapon. A loud, ominous "chick-chock" sound filled the air, and a targeting reticule became painted onto his visor. The sergeant smiled to himself, and sighted up a group of about a hundred Orc infantry making their away around the eastern flank of the camp. What made Johnson raise an eyebrow was that there appeared to be a group of humans leading them. He thought it odd, but didn't let it get in the way of what needed to be done.

"Smile!" he shouted, and depressed both firing studs.

Those nearby were nearly deafened by the thundering roar as the fifty caliber weapon went to work. It was a sight to behold. The first rounds struck, ripping through the steel and leather armor that the warriors were clad in. The first Orc wad all but vaporized by the fury of the hypersonic rounds as they ripped into his chest. His comrades were splattered with the remnants of his guts, bits of muscle and bone fragments, and one particularly poor sod who slipped one what had once been Orc brains.

The effects were devastating and instant. The group wheeled and scattered, trying to get out of the way of the strange, deadly instrument that the ODST had manned. It availed them little. Bodies were ripped in half, torsos vaporized and limbs sent flying away like broken bits of a child's toy. In seconds, the hundred soldier strong group had been reduced to little more than chunks of meat that the beasts of the wild would feast upon.

Johnson kept firing as he targeted other groups, and watched as this one was also reduced to red and black splotches upon the ground. Then Keyes started the LRV up, and they took off into the battle, with the ODST constantly vying for the best angle of attack.

Neeshka found herself running alongside the Dwarven fighters that had come along with Bruenor. They were more organized and disciplined with their tactics, and the Tiefling felt that this would better compliment her style of combat. Further, they knew that she was on their side… the tribe did not, and considering her heritage, she wasn't about to leave that to chance.

The twenty or so Dwarven soldiers formed up into a wedge shaped formation, and charged straight at the largest concentration of Orcs that they could locate. Neeshka drew her bow, and fired an arrow. Years of training with the weapon paid off, and it slipped between the plates of armor on one of the hostile humans. Blood gushed from the wound, telling her that she'd hit pay-dirt: the jugular vein had been punctured, by the hit. It would be just a matter of moments before he bled out. The man slumped to his knees as the Orcs swarmed around him, growling and frothing at the mouth like rabid animals.

She rewarded one of them with an arrow to the back of his mouth.

She stood back as the Dwarves hit the line with Bruenor leading the charge. The mighty king brought his shield up to block and upward strike from an axe, before using his own in retaliation. The finely honed mithril blade bit into the Orc's leg and kept going. It howled as it fell to the ground, now nearly two feet shorter. Bruenor took a moment to stare it in the eye, and then pushed it backwards. His soldiers were to his left and right, battle hardened veterans that had fought goblinoids and their ilk a hundred times over.

The Orcs tried to run in and knock them over, using their weapons to try and cleave the Dwarves' skulls. It failed though, as their well crafted armor held up under the assault. The wedge dove deep into their ranks, leaving naught but broken bodies and corpses behind them.

Some of the Orcs were smart enough to try flanking the formation and surrounding the Dwarves. However, Neeshka quickly cut down three of them with fire from her bow. Howling in rage, a group of them broke off towards her. She fired two more shots as they covered the fifty-foot distance. Then she slung it over her shoulder and drew her blades.

The first two leapt at her, only to die in mid jump as bolts of blue light impacted upon their bodies. With the speed and coordination granted to her by her hellish blood, Neeshka was able to see what happened in exquisite detail:

The bolts hit. Leather caught fire and metal melted. The putrid, stinking scent of burning flesh reached her sensitive nose. Then they dropped, their entire chests blasted open, blood fused and cauterized in the large craters that had once been their torsos.

"Die, mongrels!" She heard the deep voice of Orna Fulsamee shout, his voice coming into her helmet by means unknown.

More bursts of light followed, and the Orcs charged towards him with reckless abandonment. Neeshka saw her opportunity. She dove into the ranks of the enemy as they wheeled around her. Arming sword flashed and short blade stabbed, cutting through the leather and hide armor that they wore with ease. One attempted to come straight at her, but as it closed, she used its momentum against it, ducking down and sweeping its legs out from underneath it. It hit the rocky ground with a loud crack, and she wasted no time burying her longsword straight into its heart.

Still, it wasn't going to be enough, she realized. Even as she hit them from behind again, sliding her longer blade into the leg of one of the brutish monsters and hamstringing it, they were within a few dozen feet of Orna.

Then the Sangehili surprised her. His strange wands went down to his hips, and attached in a fashion similar to the human soldiers'. He reached behind himself and pulled out two small handles. The Orcs were less than fifteen feet away from him now; in half a second they'd be on him. The Arbiter gave a deft flick of his wrists, and suddenly, light sprang up from the handles, forming into sword blades. He cross the blades over his chest, and spread his mandibles wide in challenge to them, something that made him seem oddly regal, almost like a judge, about to decide who would live and who would die. Then he charged.

His strange, triple jointed legs propelled him forward at nightmarish speed, and Orna crashed into their lines with the force of a rampaging elemental. The Arbiter was everywhere at once, little more than a blur in battle. Orcs went down left and right before his weapons, but what confused Neeshka the most was that there was no blood. There should have been gallons of it splashed all over the ground, staining the snow dark with its essence. Where was it?

A second glance at the creature told her why: she saw his blades dive down against a pair of Orcs. Both raised their weapons to try and parry the blows, but it did no good. The glowing weapons slashed straight through metal sword and wooden axe handle like they weren't even there, and then into the brutes themselves. Wood, leather, and fur burst into fire as the light passed through it, and metal scales and rings were turned to molten slag. There was no blood to be spilt in the first place, it was all fused and cauterized, just like his other weapons.

The Tiefling wondered what the light truly was for a moment, before she plunged headlong back into the fight. One of the Orcs twisted around, trying to flee the Arbiter's wrath, only to find her standing there. Her first strike slashed across its eyes, cutting them out and blinding it. The Orc howled in pain, rearing backwards and bringing a hand up to grope at the wound. Its guard down, its chest exposed, it never had a chance. Neeshka lunged forward and impaled her smaller blade into it. Chain mail rings were punctured and bits of cured animal hide effortlessly sheared through. Bone and flesh met the same fate, until she'd buried the hilt of the weapon up to the hilt in her foe. Blood gushed from its mouth, and its strange, twisted face gaped silently, until the Tiefling wrenched her blade sideways, making the hole larger and then ripping the sword out.

Blood went everywhere, shooting out from the severed arteries and veins right above its heart.

"Well meet, Tiefling," Orna said, his mandibles fluttering and his head dipping slightly. "Now, let us take the fight to our foes!" The strange light blades disappeared, and his ranged weapons reappeared in his hands. He dashed closer to a large battle, where a group of Barbarians were trying to hold the line against an overwhelming number Orcs. "Your cursed hides will burn!"

The Tiefling shuddered for a moment. Orna's voice held none of the strange warmth that it usually had when he spoke. It was icy cold, filled to the brim with hate. The light pulses flew out of his weapons again, cutting down any in his path. He may not have been a demon in the true sense of the word, but Neeshka knew that to their foes, the difference would be a minor one at best.

"Large group targeted, bearing six-two-zero, one hundred meters distant," the Master Chief's voice echoed in her ear. "Initiating attack, five rounds rapid."

"Roger that, Chief. Target of opportunity has arisen in Sector oh'-five-nine, opening up with the seventy," Cortana's voice joined him, followed by the sound of thunder echoing over the plains.

It was the same all over. The…off-worlders… kept in constant communication with each other. One moment, Johnson was talking about the position of the Warthog that he and the commander were driving, and the next the Master Chief briefly commented on an Orc battle group that he had cut down with his "assault rifle."

She drew her bow once again as she marveled at this. The ability to communicate with anyone, anywhere. Nasher was absolutely going to fall in love with these helmets, or whatever this power was.

The Tiefling nocked an arrow and sent it flying. An Orc took it in the thigh. The beast howled and gripped its wound, before looking over to her in hatred. Its comrades charged towards her, screaming for blood. She fired while backpedaling, trying to keep as much distance between herself and them as was possible. It worked, and there were only five of them left once they'd managed to close to melee range. Her blades were back out in a flash, and they began to weave and dive in a furious bid to keep her foes at bay.

An axe came in from the left, trying to cleave her arm off. She whipped her longsword into position, catching the weapon underneath the blade. A flick of her wrist redirected the axe's momentum and ripped it from the hands of her foe. She had no time to follow up, as she had to duck another strike. She barely managed to, and heard it whistle over her head. There was something strange about this situation, Neeshka thought, as she jumped over a strike aimed at her kneecaps. Her blows seemed to have more power and speed behind them in this battle. She wasn't certain how, it was almost like the armor that she was wearing had been enchanted. But the off-worlders knew nothing about magic, so how could that be?

She vaulted backwards, dodging a blow that was intended to cut deep into her side. The Orc overextended himself, though, and she took the opportunity to slice his hand off. Another got too close to her right side, and her tail lashed out. With a grunt, she wrapped it around both of the Orc's legs, and gave a yank. It slipped on the icy ground, hitting its head at an odd angle. The Tiefling heard the bones crack and snap as it did so, and smiled to herself. Two down, three to go.

That number quickly became one as a loud crack reached her ears. The heads of two of them burst open like ripe melons, spraying brain matter and blood everywhere. The final Orc turned to run, giving Neeshka the perfect opportunity to leap out and stab it in the back. Twisting her shorter blade as she buried it in her opponent's spine, she looked over and saw the Master Chief standing a hundred yards away. He was already turning in another direction however. She could hear the barking of his weapon, and more Orcs fell.

"Moving to Sector Five-Six-Niner," he growled. "Ammo down to fifty shots for BR, one sixty for MA."

"Roger that, logging your position," Cortana said.

The Spartan raised his MA5B and fired another double tap. It caught his intended target, one of the humans that were supporting the Orcs, square in the chest. It punched through his chain mail armor and kept going, ripping a pair of fist-sized hole straight through his body. It got the attention of his fellows, who raised their shields and charged towards him. He picked his shots carefully, each time targeting the man that was closet to him. His ammo counter was decreasing steadily, and after this, he only had two magazines left for each of his weapons.

He fired again, catching one of the humans in the face and blowing her head apart inside of its chain mail coif. Twenty shots left for the mag, and they were one hundred feet away. Another brief pull of the trigger, another two seven-sixty-two millimeter rounds  
spat out of the rifle. They punched through shield, through armor, through flesh, through bones and vitals, and then went out the other side. The man fell, landing on his face and rolling over a few times with his momentum.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the two soldiers from Bryn Shander. They had formed up with one of the Plainsman groups and were trying to beat them away from a large tent. The Mjlonir's sensor suit picked up life readings from the inside of the tent. It took him a millisecond to put two and two together. The tribe's non-combatant population, or at least a large portion of it, had to be inside of there. It would also explain the ferocity with which the Plainsmen were fighting to keep the Orcs and invading humans away from there. They were going to be overwhelmed though, unless something happened to even the odds.

A distraction was what was needed. The Spartan casually reached down to his grenade bandolier, and yanked off a frag grenade. He flicked the pin off, and tossed it towards the charging humans, who were now bunching up in preparation for surrounding him. The humans ignored the device until it went off, and spread what was left of their bodies all over the landscape.

The Orcs and hostile humans were packed so closely together around the large tent that the Master Chief swore he could have walked upon them. He quickly loaded a new mag into his rifle, sighted up the most densely packed cluster he could find, and opened fire. His automatic rifle sent out a barrage of high velocity rounds into their ranks. Heads were ripped apart, limbs shorn off and chests blown open at the rate of more than seven every second.

The MA5B clicked empty after four seconds of firing, and while he had only made a small dent in their numbers so far, he had drawn their attention away from the defenders. He primed a plasma grenade, and threw the little orb like it was a baseball. It hit one of the humans in the face, and the Chief knew from the way he had lurched backwards that it had connected with the force to break the man's neck.

The resulting explosion resembled a small sun, and opened up a huge hole in the lines of the enemy ranks. Combined with the earlier barrage of fire, the Master Chief knew that he had made himself a threat in their eyes. A number of the group broke for him, while others threw down their shields and weapons and ran for their lives. He unslung his BR-55 and went prone. With his targeting profile minimized, he took aim at the closest target and fired a single shot.

The Orc was wearing little for headgear aside from a fur and leather cap with a pair of horns in it. This obviously did very little to slow down the mach five slug that hit it. The Orc's head dissolved into a splatter of blood and bones, while the bullet kept moving and hit another Orc behind it. This one was somewhat taller, and the upper portion of his chest simply vanished after it hit.

Another target, another gentle squeeze of the trigger, another couple of bodies to add to his kill count.

"Ammo supplies running low, requesting resupply," he spoke into his mike.

"Roger that, I think I can help you with another problem as well," Cortana said.

He understood what she was about to do. The Plainsmen and the heart of the line pressing them were about thirty meters apart, just sufficient for a carefully aimed seventy millimeter round to wreak havoc upon the enemy. The Master Chief smiled grimly behind his helmet. Aimed by an A.I. construct who was capable of performing hundreds of trillions of calculations and operations in a fraction of a second, the round would go exactly where it needed to go. The Pelican swooped in, barely a meter off of the ground, scattering snow and ice with its thrusters. A deafeningly loud bang echoed through the tundra and the auto-cannon round dead its deadly work. Moving at speeds in excess of twelve times what sound itself was capable of, the hunk of metal didn't even need to hit an individual to kill them.

The Plainsmen, indeed, none of the individuals that were native to Faerun, save Bruenor and Wulfgar, had ever witnessed what a death caused by sonic overpressure looked like. It was messy, to say the least. The rapidly expanding air hit the Orcs with the force of an exploding thermobaric warhead. Bones were shattered, hearts stopped, organs liquefied in an instant, and arms, heads, and other extremities ripped to pieces. Anyone within ten meters of the round was killed instantly. Others were left to crawl, deafened and disoriented, to and fro about the battlefield, their eardrums shattered and blood oozing out of their ears, noses, and eyes.

The line broke utterly, fleeing in every direction that they could. The Pelican banked to keep as many lined up as was possible, while also keeping a safe distance from the Plainsmen. It fired three more rounds, and scores died as a result.

John picked off the remainder of the group that had been headed for him with contemptuous ease. Scared witless by the fate of their comrades, they wheeled and scattered. Easy prey for a predator of his caliber. Rifle cracks echoed in rapid succession, each one marking the death of men or Orcs. Blood, dark and crimson alike, flowed through the snow.

The last bullet went sailing into the back of a soldier that was fleeing towards the south. The round tore through his armor and kept going, splattering bits of his spine all in front of him. His body slumped to the ground and skidded for a few meters before stopping.

Cortana wheeled the drop ship around then, and the Master Chief leapt up inside of it. He immediately secured his weapons locker, pulling out assault rifle magazines and ammo for his BR-55, focusing mainly on shredder rounds as opposed to armor piercing. He took a moment to restock on his grenades as well.

"Ammo at one hundred percent, moving back out into the field," he said.

"Roger that," Keyes responded. "The fifty's almost dry, Johnson's going to have to take a time out to reload soon enough. "We're clearing the outside perimeter well enough, but the Warthog's gun is too heavy to risk firing into a melee or into the village. We need you to move in and assist with securing it. Understood?"

"Perfectly ma'am." He paused for a minute and hovered back over the weapons locker. That would mean close quarters work, and the BR-55 wouldn't be best suited for that. He pulled out a shotgun and some ammo boxes, noting curiously that Johnson had seen fit to pack some explosive shells. He grabbed the box, stuffed it into one of his deep combat pouches, and leapt off the back of the dropship.

The Plainsmen had rallied around the large tent, and he noticed one elderly fighter who seemed to be barking directions. He carried a large spear, wickedly serrated and adorned with a small flag that had the skull of an elk painted on it. The Spartan cycled his assault rifle and raced over towards him. He covered the three hundred meter distance in about eight seconds, skidding up to a stop at the edge of the group.

"Rally to me!" the man shouted thrusting his spear up into the air and letting the banner wave slightly.

They noticed his approach and for once, did not seem overly wary of him. They knew that he was helping to slaughter their enemies, and what was the enemy of the enemy, if not temporary friend?

"You have our thanks for your help," he said with a slight bow.

"Where are the rest of your women and children?" The Spartan asked him.

"Throughout the village," he gestured to the different tents. "The attack came without time to get them all to the main hall. We're rallying to press in and save as many as we possibly can."

"Get your people together then. I'll scout ahead and plow the road." He placed the butt of the MA5B to his shoulder and took off into the heart of the camp, one eye on his surroundings, and the other on his motion tracker.

"Everyone, Sitrep!" Keyes called.

"Moving into the camp, killing house," John said, twisting and firing off a round at an Orc that was trying to hide, but was betrayed by the movements of its body. The 7.62 round hit it in the throat and ripped its head off.

"I am assisting the Dwarves and Neeshka along the eastern flank. Enemy has massive numerical superiority, but they're faltering," Orna said. "The strange humans seem to be the backbone of this operation. When they go down, the courage and discipline of the Orcs seems to waver and fade."

"Okay, we just slapped a new ammo drum onto the fifty, so we're good for a while," Johnson said. "We're going to keep moving around the perimeter, see if we can't spook some of them out of hiding and out into the open. Push comes to shove, we can always run them over."

John nodded to himself, and he could hear Orna's plasma rifles sending off bolts of death into the ranks of the enemy.

He reached a patch of tents, and started his sweeps. Dead Plainsmen were on the ground in front of a couple of them, the ground around them stained dark with blood that was both human and Orc. His motion sensor was not detecting anything, but best to play it safe. The tents were arranged in a somewhat hexagonal manner, each about five feet apart around what appeared to be a communal cooking fire.

He swung his rifle around in front of him, right first, then left, moving quickly and efficiently. Most of the tent flaps were open, and whatever valuables had once been inside were now gone, leaving only scattered earth and bedrolls, along with what appeared to be traces of dried meat left as proof of habitation. The people of this group had been carried off.

"Commander, be advised of possible non-com POWs intermingled among fleeing hostile groups," he spoke into the radio.

"Understood, Johnson careful where you shoot. Cortana, get the other bird up in the air and see if you can locate any before these bastards get too far away," Miranda responded.

The Spartan could hear the other Plainsmen coming up behind him. Right now, they had all the subtlety and stealth of a rampaging Brute Chieftain. Still, they were allies for the moment, even if he would have to baby sit them, likely as not.

"This area's clear, moving on," he informed Keyes.

The next group of tents was less than thirty meters away. This one did have activity—a few Orcs milling around looking for valuables of some kind. Looting while the battle was still raging, the Spartan had to resist the urge to start rolling his eyes at the ineptitude that he was witnessing here. He leveled his rifle and opened fire on them. Three were cut down in an instant, two more as they went for their weapons. One turned to flee, and received a double tap that blew out most of his chest for his efforts. The final one dropped its weapon and fell to its knees, its hands clutched out before it in what seemed to be a gesture of surrender. It was gibbering something to him in a growling, barking tongue that reminded him a lot of how the Grunts spoke.

He fired a single round that hit it dead in the forehead, blowing the back of its skull out and spreading its brains all over the ground. It was nothing personal. The Orc was an enemy, he had a village to clean out, and no means of realistically detaining it while went about his work, and he wasn't about to trust the thing to stay down and play nice once his back was turned.

The corpse slumped and he moved up to the tents, double checking for civilians and survivors. There was nothing.

"Second group empty, moving forward to the third. Seven Orcs KIA."

"Roger that, they're still pressing hard around the eastern flank, but they're starting to waver," Keyes said.

The third and forth tent groupings were the same, but he was getting close to some fighting. There was a cluster of Orcs and hostile humans bunched up around the north western region of the camp. The Spartan deviated from his intended route rushing over to ascertain the situation.

There was a quartet of defenders, freshly slain, lying in front of the tents. Screams of women and young children reached his ears, and he saw two girls, one in her teens and the other one not much more than eight. The child immediately tried to bolt, but an Orc scooped her up and slashed the back of her right leg, a classic hamstringing maneuver, he recognized. One of the humans was also wrestling with the older girl, trying to tie her down.

The girl's frantic screams and desperate struggles went still a tenth of a second later, replaced by surprise. The human wore a similar reaction, no doubt caused by the realization that the front part of his throat was missing from the jaw down. He was able to twist and stare at the Master Chief for a fraction of a second before massive blood loss caused him to slump to the ground. The next round cut into the Orc carrying the younger girl, a sister, the Chief supposed.

Then they began to fall like dominoes, one after the other. Some charged, only to be slain by shredder rounds that penetrated their chests, fragmented, and turned their insides into what could best be described as bloody confetti. Some chose to run, and all that happened was that they died with their backs to their enigmatic foe.

The last one quickly scooped up the younger girl, holding a knife near her throat. John couldn't make out what it was saying, but he got the jist of it. For a moment, the cyborg was tempted to explain to the Orc that his MA5B's bullet, traveling at just over mach four, would be able to cross the distance between them, burry itself into the Orc's head, blast the back of his skull off and splatter his brains—or what passed for them—halfway from where they were to the next tent group before the first commands for the Orc's arm to move reached the corresponding nerves. Then he realized that it was probably a futile exercise and pulled the trigger.

It happened exactly as it should have. The Orc's eyes crossed, and its corpse slumped over backwards. The girl tried to stand, but her bleeding leg was too damaged. The Master Chief rushed forward and picked her up off the ground, motioning for the older one to get to her feet. He noticed another couple of hostile humans fleeing from the scene, and leveled his rifle, spitting off a pair of rounds at each of them. They connected and the two men dropped as dark clods of what almost looked like dirt flew from them.

"Civilians recovered, falling back to main defending group for the moment," he spoke into his commlink.

He heard a shout, and saw that some humans had spotted him. One of them leveled a crossbow, and fired at him. He twisted instinctively to protect the child that he was carrying. The bolt came in and hit his shields. They flared up and crackled over the armor suit, but the gauge on his HUD didn't show a drop by any significant degree. He leveled his assault rifle and fired one handed towards the man. The round penetrated his breast plate and ripped into his heart, turning it into so much useless muscle before punching out his back. He could see the man cough up blood and slump down. Others were taking notice though, and also readying bow weapons. He sent a spray of suppressive fire at them, killing some, and making others drop what they were doing and dash behind concealment after they saw what happened to their comrades.

The Master Chief was content with that for the moment. Once he'd gotten these civilians to a safer area, he could go back and hunt them down.

He reached the Plainsmen, who quickly surrounded him and plucked the wounded child from his arms. Her sister was right behind the Spartan, and secure in the knowledge that there was a small army between them and the enemy, John headed back out.

There were only a few more tent groups along the row that he was traveling in, and all of them were deserted. The Orcs and their human allies were pulling back, taking whatever prisoners they could with them. The Master Chief's blood began to boil, despite his attempts to keep it under control. This was bringing back memories of countless battles before this one, of the fights on worlds where the Covenant had been victorious and were hauling off human prisoners to be consumed by ravenous Grunts and Jackals.

Spartans were famous for the cold, calculating rages that they could enter in the field of battle. Emotion almost departed, and every action became the end result of split second logical decisions. Mercy, what little the Spartans had in them, also fled. John himself carried the infamous title of "Demon" to the forces of the Covenant—a title earned by the blood of the hundreds of thousands that he had slain with bullets, grenades, fusion bombs, and in some cases, his bare hands. His squad mates, soldiers like Will, Fred, Kelly, Linda, Anton, and Grace… they were simply known as the avatars of death.

Such was the nature of the creature that the invaders found themselves up against. He knew no fear, no pity, no pain. Cries for mercy went unheeded as the Spartan ruthlessly executed human and Orc alike, his massive bulk grinding their corpses into the frozen earth below.

"Chief, got movement one hundred and fifty meters northwest of your position. Looks like more hostiles, but be warned, they've got hostages." Cortana said.

"Roger that," he looked thirty degrees to his right, and stepped around the tent that was in his way. Sure enough, a group of humans, women, children, and a few elderly people near them. Two of the soldiers appeared to be arguing with one another. He couldn't hear them from where he was, they were apparently taking pains to try and remain quiet, but by their frantic gesturing, he figured that they'd realized things were going south, and that it was time to bug out.

It took the Spartan another millisecond to deduce the source of the argument: the village elderly. They might have wisdom of the area, and knowledge of resources and trades that would prove useful as slaves, but they were also going to slow the group down. And when you had an unknown, enigmatic hostile force chasing after you, you did not want to be moving any slower than you absolutely had to.

Some of the children started to cry, and the older ones to shout. A sword started to flash up through the air, and the Spartan acted. Before the blade had reached its zenith, His MA5B had fired a single round that had buried itself into the back of the man's skull, shattering the chain mail coif that he wore as if it wasn't even there, and probably giving his comrades a very interesting and in depth look into the inner workings of the human skull. The others were just beginning to react with horror when supersonic uranium tore through them.

Two of them turned to flee, ducking behind a tent. John raced around to flank them, and the men's last few moments were filled with terror as they realized just how quickly a Spartan could run.

This time the Chief didn't even bother to waste a bullet. He was close enough that he just reached out and punched the nearest man square in the face with speed that rivaled a striking cobra. There was a sickening crunch as bones shattered and flesh tore. The man's nose bone was jammed up into his skull, his shattered temporal and zygomatic bones sent razored fragments tearing into the delicate nerves, which were themselves utterly destroyed by the metal covered fist that came plowing through a fraction of a second afterwards.

The second never knew the fate of the first, because the Chief pivoted his body and lashed out with a vicious roundhouse kick. It connected heel first into the man's hip, crushing the femur and pelvic bones and causing the femoral artery to burst under the pressure. His mouth opened in a scream of agony that was never to be heard, cut off at its source when the Spartan reversed the kick and brought the front of his foot across his foe's face.

What was left of the soldier's head was left to ooze out along the ground, along with the rest of his corpse.

"Help's that way!" John shouted, gesturing towards the advancing group of plainsmen.

The civilians were left to gawk at the sight of the seven and a half foot tall killing machine bolting further into the village.

"Be advised, Chief, enemy is pulling out and retreating into the mountains," Cortana said. "I'm detecting numerous Human biosignatures mixed in with them, and visual feedback indicates a number of them to be captured civilians. I think this may be a slave raid."

"Little large for a slave raid," Johnson muttered, and Chief could hear the heavy pounding of the fifty caliber firing off. "We need to find out who was in charge here, see if we can get information out of them."

The Master Chief looked around, and thought of all they had learned of the Orcs since their arrival. They seemed to operate by strong-man rule. Which would mean that the leader would probably be the largest and most well equipped Orc. Easy enough, find the one with the best looking equipment.

He sighted up another group that he saw fleeing, but was forced to yank his gun away when a cloaked figure dashed into their midst. A pair of scimitars led him to deduce that it was Drizzt, and he fought the urge to swear. Had his reflexes not been what they were, the Dark Elf would have just gotten a round in the back. He was going to have a few choice words with the Drow and explain to him the concept of "field of fire."

Still, as he watched the Elf at work, he felt a small bit of respect inside of him. Spartan Time gave him a very clear view of exactly how the swordsman went about his work. The two weapons were like extensions of the Dark Elf's body, one moment working against separate enemies to knock both off balance and then coming in to work in perfect harmony against one of them, stabbing deep into an Orc's gut while the other slashed across its throat. The other Orc went down a fraction of a second later, blood erupting out of its belly and chest as the expertly crafted weapons did their work.

The Drow twisted out of the way of another strike, countering with a stab that punched through the scale armor that the Orc in question was wearing. The Orc was stunned just long enough for the other scimitar to make it shorter by a head. The Dark Elf's speed was impressive, especially for someone not augmented by cybernetics or power armor, and his stance and form indicated someone who was very close to the peak of his trade.

Sensing that Drizzt had things under control with that squad, the Chief raised his rifle towards another nearby group and proceeded to cut them down without mercy. Behind him, the Plainsmen were rapidly approaching, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Orna, Neeshka, and the Dwarves moving up and biting hard at the heels of the enemy.

The only warning that he had was a sudden spike of light, and then a huge column of flame, twenty feet around, burst up from out of nowhere. The Spartan instinctively threw himself to one side, ignoring the screams of the Plainsmen who had just been consumed.

"Cortana, where did that come from?" he growled, sweeping the area with his rifle.

"Not sure, Chief, scanning. Detecting EM signature spiking, though, and I'm pretty certain it was some form of magic."

"See if you can find the source," he said to her, as he heard cries that they were under attack from behind.

"Be careful, that stuff was almost as hot as Covenant plasma fire," the A.I. responded, and then went silent for a tick. "Umm, Chief, you might want to have a look behind you."

The cyborg turned around and saw that corpses were rising up from where they lay, grabbing their weapons and charging towards the Plainsmen line. For a moment, he thought the Flood had somehow landed here, that Grave Mind had followed them. Then he tossed that notion from his mind. These… animated corpses, did not have the characteristic color that the Flood's combat forms had possessed, nor the tentacles that were strong enough to send a four ton Warthog flipping end over end. Their gait was also somewhat slower, and dare he say, clumsier than the Flood's lightning quick fluidity from which they drew their name.

If they were anything like that menace, though, it meant that they would be hard to kill, and would need to have their bodies rendered virtually inoperable before succumbing. He slung his assault rifle over his shoulder, and drew his shotgun. He lined up with one and fired.

The explosive pellets flew out of the weapon with a thundering boom and a super-sonic crack. The first shambling corpse that they connected with simply vanished amidst the orange and yellow fireball that enveloped it. Bits and pieces went flying and he decided this was probably the ideal weapon for them.

Still, while he had put one of them down, well over a dozen remained. He loaded another shell and let fly. This corpse, a human who had already been decapitated, was also reduced to charred metal and hunks of cooked meat. That hammer that Wulfgar carried also came flying out, and smashed into one of the undead. The corpse went flying back, utterly broken, before the hammer vanished. A neat trick, the Spartan thought. One with enormous tactical application.

Between himself and Wulfgar, it did not take more than a few moments to dispose of the shambling creatures. Satisfied that his work was finished here, the Master Chief headed out on the advance again. He needed to find that spell caster.

Drizzt was destined to be the first one to locate the source behind the attack. His keen eyes noticed her standing off on a rise, hidden amongst the chaos and the shadows. The spider etched into the front of her armor told him clearly what she was, a cleric of Lolth, here to oversee this slaving operation. The question was why. The ranger shook his head. There would be a chance to find out later. Right now, he needed to put an end to her games, before any more of the Barbarians got hurt.

With the agility that his race was infamous for, he began to leap up onto some of the rocky protrusions, propelling himself towards the cleric. She glanced his way, and he knew that he'd been spotted. The priestess pulled out a small object, and seemed to be chanting a spell. Just as the Dark Elf cleared the top of the ridge, she finished and hurled the object to the ground. Scimitars held out in front of him in a defensive posture, he glared over at her.

The ground rumbled and shook, and suddenly shot up. At first Drizzt believed it to be some kind of wall, then he realized that it was taking shape, and faintly gulped. Nearly thirty feet tall, and hewn from living rock, an earth elemental stood before him. The creatures were armies unto themselves, able to tear down the mightiest of walls with ease, and entire military companies were often lost before such brutes could be dropped.

"Destroy them…" she whispered harshly in the tongue of the Drow, and it was a voice that Drizzt thought he recognized.

The elemental charged past him and leaped over the cliff. It came down and hit the ground with a thunderous crash. It made a beeline for the barbarian lines, rampaging towards them with the fury of a hurricane.

Wulfgar would be able to handle it, Drizzt tried to convince himself. Right now, he had to stop the Cleric. If he could take her down, it might damage the connection of the elemental to the Material Plane, weaken it somewhat. He approached her carefully, his eyes on the mace she carried in her left hand, and the snake-whip in the right.

"Hello, brother," the girl whispered.

For a second, he wasn't sure what she meant, but then he realized who it was. The priestess robes, the sneering tone… and the build. It was Briza, his eldest sister. She was large, even by female standards, nearly the size of a human. Zak, his father, had always joked that was because she had too much anger in her for a smaller body to do. There was much malice and cruelty in her as well. He still had a few scars on his back from where he had earned her wrath as a child.

"So… our dear mother would chase me this far…" He muttered, keeping his eye on her. If he could lure her into a rage, she'd be easier to beat. It had worked the last couple of times he'd run into her in the Underdark.

"Our dear mother…" Briza hissed glaring at him and clenching her fists. "Malice is dead because of you, you foolish male. Her failure to kill you cost her heavily. She did not survive the retribution Lolth sent as a punishment."

"Well, I'd say a prayer and hope that she was resting in peace, but I seem to recall that fat spider that you worship isn't big on forgiveness, so I'll make her eulogy short and sweet," he paused for a moment, and then grinned. "She had it coming."

Briza snarled and attacked, her whip sailing out and the five heads coming to life, each one seeking to try and bit through his leather and mithril armor. He swung his scimitars back and forth, swatting aside the heads and slicing one of them in half with Icingdeath. It went limp, but he had no reprieve, because his sister brought her mace in, causing it to burst into fire with a word. The harsh light bothered his sensitive eyes to a degree, but he was able to fight through the pain and parry it, making a stab at her midsection at the same time. Briza was able to twist out of the way.

He had to dive beneath the next attack, his eyes widening as one of the snake heads came within a hairsbreadth of hitting him in the face. Again, though, he proved to be the victor, bringing Twinkle up and lopping its head off. Now she had only three heads left.

"You think this bothers me, little brother?" she grunted as she swung her mace. "Even now, my elemental is rampaging among your lines, slaying your friends, crushing them without mercy! It shall destroy them—"

Whatever Briza had been about to say was cut off by a tremendous roar and explosion.

Both Drow turned and stared out below. All they could see was an enormous amount of steam and molten, slagged rock. Drizzt noticed the Master Chief, the sun shining off of his armor, standing near the blast zone, a large, box like device on his shoulder. The Barbarians also appeared to be absolutely stunned by what they had just seen.

"Yes, sister, you were saying?" he arched an eyebrow over to her.

Briza screamed in rage and attacked him straight on. The remaining heads of her snake whip lashed out, and combined with the flaming mace, forced the renegade Drow to work furiously to keep them from landing. He sliced another one off, swatted the mace aside, and then dodged to the right to avoid the furious retaliation of his sister. Briza was going on a rampage, or trying to. With a twist of his left wrist, Drizzt was able to slice the remaining two heads off of the snake whip, but it bought him only a short respite.

Briza cast another spell, and another flaming mace appeared in her hand. She also seemed to grow even stronger, her muscles cording up and making her look even more deranged than was usual. An impressive feat, Drizzt thought to himself.

He flipped out of the way of the strike that followed, knowing that there was no conceivable way he'd be able to block it. Snarling, Briza tried to bring the other mace down from overhead and smash his skull into his shoulders, but he dove to the side and the mace connected with nothing but air. Rolling, the ranger came up to his feet and slashed out with both scimitars. Twinkle was deflected off of the breast plate that his sister wore, but Icingdeath was able to score a slight wound just underneath her arm.

Briza cried out as the weapon's chilling touch made her right arm limp and unresponsive, and her mace fell to the ground from suddenly numb fingers. She countered with a furious swing that would have crushed his ribcage if he hadn't danced out of the way.

Scimitars and mace continued their dance as the Spider Priestess started to call on more of her powers to aid her. A glowing shield of energy leapt up around her body, keeping Drizzt at bay. The renegade Drow frowned, then decided to play dirty in his own way. A thought was all it took. There was a crackling of black lightning, and a loud yowl reverberated throughout the area. Guenivyer had come to play. The enormous black panther, six hundred pounds of muscle, fangs, and claws, shook her head and lunged towards the cleric.

Guen remembered this one. Nearly two decades ago it had hunted her friend in the underground wilds. She had wanted to bring her keeper back to his death. The large cat threw herself at the Drow priestess. Briza leapt to one side, rolling around in the snow, before scrambling back to her feet. The cleric had no desire to test her magic against a creature of the astral plane.

As she rose back to her feet, the only warning that she received was a sudden pressure in her back, followed by the boot of her brother. She made a clumsy swing with her mace at Guen, who had darted in to maul her, but the agile panther easily avoided the blow. Again, she rolled around, muttering a complex chant under her breath.

As Drizzt again approached her, a glowing portal opened up, and out of it came a human sized lizard creature. It gave a screech, and leapt at the ranger, who barely managed to avoid the jumping lunge. Grimly, he noted that each of the creature's feet sported a large, sickle like talon, about eight inches long. Its tail was also lightning quick, and caught him square in the chest. He grunted and was sent flying. It was on him in an instant, but as it went to pounce, a loud roar resounded through the air, and a black blur knocked the creature off its feet.

Drizt took advantage of the reprieve and vaulted back up to his feet. Briza was back up as well, glaring at her brother with hate filled eyes. The ranger, however, had had quite enough of this little contest. As his elder sister went to cast her next spell, he sheathed Twinkle, and reached down into a pouch that he wore on his belt. He drew out a small object about the size and shape of a child's marble.

He tossed it to the ground, and squinted. There was a flash and Briza cried out. His eyes, somewhat more used to the bright light after more than two decades on the surface, were only mildly disturbed by the sudden change in luminescence. He raced over towards his sister, and punched her square in the face, following it up by a blow to her temple with the butt end of Icingdeath. Her eyes rolled up, and she slumped to the ground, blinded and disoriented.

Once he was sure that she was down, he raced over to help Guenivyer. The black panther sported several wounds from her fight with the reptilian beast, but she had repaid it in kind. He reached down, pulled a dagger from his boot, and threw it as hard as he could. The six inch long blade sunk up to its haft into the flesh of the creature. It screeched, and twisted to face him, a move that would ultimately prove fatal. Guen took the opportunity to pounce, coming down hard and clamping her teeth on her foe's spine. The bones snapped and shattered under the panther's fury, breaking its back, paralyzing it, and sealing its fate.

Once it was disposed off, the ranger looked around. The battle appeared to have been won, though he used that term hesitantly. He didn't know how many people had been carried off by the raiders.

One of the off-worlder's vehicles roared by down below, the large weapon on its back thundering and causing Orcs to transform into clouds of blood and chunks of flesh before his very eyes. The black armored human that was manning it—Johnson, was cutting their ranks apart with the thing.

He felt a shudder well up inside of him. What world did these people come from, what wars did they fight, that merited the use of such a weapon? How could anyone be so brutal as to craft something like that?

A small nagging voice in the back of his head took extra care to remind him that whatever that device was, it could shred him as easily as it could the Orcs here.

* * *

The Master Chief looked around himself and took stock of the casualties. Many of the Plainsmen were sporting wounds, some of them serious. They were also looking exhausted, and would be in no condition to fight. He frowned and palmed his rifle a few times, trying to think of the best solution.

"Cortana," he asked, "How many hostiles escaped, and do you have a number on the captured civies?"

"Several hundred of them made it out, and there is always the possibility of reinforcements," the A.I. said. "As for civilians, I'm not sure, but judging by the scans I'm getting of the camp right now, they may have made off with as many as half of them."

The Spartan paused for a millisecond, noting that Drizzt was hauling up someone, a female Dark Elf. He was surprised, as he recalled Neeshka saying something about Drow not coming to the surface very often. Still, she represented an intelligence gathering opportunity, one that needed to be exploited at the earliest possible time. They had a tribe to rescue, after all.

As he began to approach the aged warrior he'd met earlier, Keyes pulled the Warthog up to the group and put it in park. She and Johnson both hopped off the LRV, and moved over. Bruenor, Neeshka, and Orna were also converging on this location. He noted that there only seemed to be a couple of missing Dwarves, though most were sporting minor wounds. They were experienced fighters then, and their armor of high quality.

"Gonna be needing to add some more notches to me axe," Bruenor said, looking towards the elderly warrior, who Chief was beginning to think the leader of this tribe. "Still, the bastards made off with quite a few of your number. Any plans for what's next?"

"First, preparation," Keyes said, crossing her arms over her shoulders. "We've got a drone in the sky monitoring the movements of the Orcs and the other parties. Once we ascertain their destination, we take stock of their defenses, and plan accordingly."

"You may get some help from this one if you can weasel it out of her," Drizzt said, toeing his the female's side. "I'm not sure how you'll do it though, Spider Clerics are quite resistant to pain and torture."

"Cortana, get one of the birds down here," Keyes said.

"Aye-aye, ma'am." One of the Pelican's rapidly descended to ground level, causing some of the natives to quickly back away.

Johnson hurried onboard, and the Master Chief knew what he was looking for. ONI had long ago cooked up a series of drugs that could be injected into prisoners for interrogation purposes in the field, where time wasn't exactly a luxury that soldiers could afford. They did things like suppress mental ability, distort judgment, and the like. He still wasn't certain if it would work, though. It was entirely possible that the cocktail, made for use on Humans or Covenant forces, wouldn't affect a being of Drow physiology, or that the priestess' body might be "hardened" against such toxins by delivering similar substances in minute amounts, building up tolerance and resistance over time.

There was, however, a possible solution. He looked around for Regis, and found the small alien standing near a tent, seemingly deep in thought. He approached carefully and saluted the councilman.

"May I help you, soldier?" Regis asked.

"We might need your stone to interrogate the prisoner Drizzt captured," he said.

"I thought as much. Though I warn you, Clerics tend to be able to resist such tricks like this." He started to follow behind the Spartan.

"We're also going to administer a drug cocktail and see if it can't loosen her up a bit," the Spartan said as Johnson emerged from the Pelican with a hypodermic needle in hand.

"She'll need to be fully awake for anything," Wulfgar said, turning to face them. "And before that happens, we need to gag her. I don't want her trying to fry us all."

"Agreed," Drizzt said with a nod, pulling out a piece of cloth from one of his pouches and making a quick but effective gag with it.

"Might want to do something about those hands too," Bruenor gestured with his axe. "Not all spells need a voice to get moving."

There was a quick exchange of glances among the gathered people. The Master Chief considered hand-cuffs or restraints for a moment, but those only stopped the wrists, not necessarily the fingers, and it wasn't like they made a habit of carrying military grade Chinese finger traps with themselves. Still, there was one solution that was certain to work, even if it was extreme. He looked over to Keyes, who understood, and nodded her head twice.

The Spartan shifted his assault rifle, slipping the strap over his shoulder where it clacked against the Spartan Laser and his shotgun. A few steps brought him over to the female Drow. He knelt down next to her, and before anyone could react, had taken her hands into his own and squeezed. The bones shattered instantly, and she awoke with a muffled scream. This was followed by Johnson, none to gently, picking her up by her cloak, jamming the needle into her neck, and depressing the plunger.

"She can't cast spells with her hands if the hands don't work," Keyes said, her voice cold.

The natives were just staring at the off-worlders, and Drizzt himself seemed almost alarmed. He opened his mouth to say something, but then thought better of it. Then everyone's eyes fell upon Regis, and the Halfling nervously stepped forward, taking his gem out of his shirt and shinning it at the cleric.

The combination of drugs and magic coupled with the pain of having every bone in her hands shattered worked wonders on the cleric, and within moments, she had a dull, glazed look to her face. The gag was removed from her mouth, and as a precaution, nearly every weapon in the area pointed straight at her.

"You should probably do the questioning," Keyes said, gesturing to Wulfgar and the elder Plainsman he was next to.

"Who are you?" Wulfgar asked.

The Dark Elf looked over to him for a moment, before opening her mouth.

"I am Briza Baerne, first born daughter of Matron Malice Do'Urden," the Master Chief noticed that her tone was monotone, as if she was oblivious to all else. He also caught the last name, and his eyes shifted over to Drizzt, who seemed to withdraw deeper into his cloak. "Adopted by House Baerne when House Do'Urden fell a decade ago."

"Fell?" Orna asked, cock his head to the side.

"We failed to eliminate my brother, who had blasphemed against the Spider Queen," she twisted to see Drizzt, her crimson eyes connecting with his violet ones for a second. "When my mother failed to destroy him, Lolth took vengeance upon her. Our house was eradicated. But Matron Baenre is wise, she knew that my sisters and I had nothing to do with the rebellion and blasphemy of Drizzt. She spared us, took us into her own house, thereby increasing its power."

"Why were you here?" Wulfgar said, crossing his arms and glaring down at the woman before them.

"I was under orders to orchestrate a raid on the Plainsmen," Briza shook her head for a moment and then focused back on the hulking warrior. "The raid's purpose was to be twofold. The first objective was to deprive Bruenor Battle-Hammer of any reinforcements or aid that he might obtain from them, or from Ten Towns, as they would be to worried about their own hides to send help."

"And the second?" Bruenor growled, drumming his fingers against his axe handle.

"To cement an alliance with Luskan. The Plainsmen are strong, their women and children as well. They make excellent sources of heavy labor or other work deemed too dangerous for the city's guard or standard workforce." Briza said with a shrug.

"What are the plans of Matron Baerne?" Drizzt took a step forward, his heavy cloak draped around his form like an oversized robe, hiding him from the stares of the others.

"Mithril Hall is to be just the beginning. Alliances are being forged, and armies from all over the Underdark mustered." She laughed slightly. "We are going to band together, and sweep your world aside to forge our empire."

Briza continued to cackle, and the Master Chief frowned.

"How long until your invasion is ready? Where are you concentrating your forces? What makes them up, and what fortifications does Mithril Hall have that you are augmenting?" he snapped off questions in rapid succession.

"Where and when is information I am not privy to, and cannot tell you. As for our forces, if it lives in the Underdark, we will bring it to your surface world." Briza smiled as she finished, a somewhat dreamy look on her face.

"What about the Luskans, explain them," Bruenor spoke up.

"They're to get a large portion of Faerun and the Moon Islands to control. A number of powerful Drow artifacts have also been promised to their arcmagi." A lopsided grin was still on her face.

The interrogation continued for some minutes, but little further headway was made. At last, the questions were exhausted, and everyone was lost in thought or a moment. Finally, Keyes spoke.

"Is there anything else we need from her?" she asked.

"Not really." Bruenor shook his head. "And holding her will be tricky, I'm not really sure what we're going to do with her now."

"Any chance of turning her from the enemy? How potent is that stone?" She turned to Regis.

"She's already fighting it," Drizzt nodded his head. "As for her turning traitor? You'd have a better chance of getting sympathy from a Balor," he sighed. "Briza was always fanatical as a believer, even for a Priestess of Lolth. That spider bitch has her fangs deep in my people."

Keyes bowed her head for a moment, then looked up. "Chief…"

Nothing else needed to be said. The Spartan drew his rifle, pointed it at Briza's chest, and fired two rounds and point blank range. The snow splashed red with blood, and she toppled backwards, sprawling out as her shattered heart leaked out life essence.

Everyone was too stunned to react for the first few seconds. Their eyes kept moving between the Spartan and the dead Drow before him.

"Problem solved," He said it with a tone of finality.

"You… just executed her?" Bruenor looked up at him, and John could clearly see the confusion on his face, before looking over to Drizzt. "I mean, I know she's a Drow and all, but don't you think you should have asked him?"

"She was a hostile target only temporarily subdued, we had no way of extracting further information from her, and our resources are already strained. Further, I'm not about to let a hostile, whose full capabilities I do not yet know, onboard my ship," Keyes said.

Drizzt's head was bowed, his eyes closed as if he was praying, the Master Chief noted. When he was finished, and opened his eyes back up, there was a combination of sorrow and resignation in them. The Spartan figured that there must have been some very… interesting… history in the Drow's past. He also had the impression that Drizzt was hiding something. He frowned, but put it in the back of his mind for the moment. He could inquire about that at a later date. There were more important things to worry about at the moment.

"The Commander speaks the truth. This world is safer, and certainly better, without my sister terrorizing it anymore," He said, and then seemed to retreat deeper into his cloak.

"Let's move," Keyes gestured towards the Pelican. "Get those with critical wounds onboard, we'll take them back and patch them up. You three," she nodded to Chief, Johnson, and Orna, "load up with them and head back. Prepare yourselves for a night assault."

"Infiltration or dynamic?" Chief asked.

"Both," Keyes said. "Anyone who wants to help us get those civilians back is more than welcome to assist."

"We will need time to prepare," the elderly warrior said, "but they are our wives, children, brothers, sisters, and parents. I, Revajik, promise you all the help that we can spare in dealing with this threat." He thumped his fist against his chest.

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend," Bruenor said. "'Sides, the fewer Orcs in this area, the better."

"And I cannot just stand by and watch innocents suffer," Drizzt said nothing else, merely bowed his head again.

"Count me in too. This is a chance for me to pay you guys back for all the help you've given me," Neeshka said, waving her hand in the air. "And if Luskan is involved, well, it's bad news for Neverwinter."

Keyes nodded. "Then prepare yourselves. We'll be back ASAP to explain the plan."

With that, she and her soldiers stepped up alongside the wounded Barbarians and shot out of sight.

* * *

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Okay, there it is. Hope it was okay.

thumping of miscellaneous debris is heard

Mother nature has something to say as well. Now, if only I knew whether that was a good or a bad response. Ahh well, I suppose if she smashes out my windows I'll know.

At any rate, hope this has been a good read for everyone, and as always, any feedback, from praise to ideas/suggestions to flames, and especially constructive criticism, will be welcomed with open arms.

Until next time, stay safe folks.

Red Mage, signing off.


	9. Chapter Eight—By Demons Be Driven

Hello again everyone, sorry of the delays, but Law School's kicking me left right and center. Matter of fact, as soon as I'm done here, I've got 40 pages of Torts to read and brief. But I digress.

Word of warning to you all, this chapter is going to get just a little bit graphic at parts, more so than usual.

Also, as always, my humble and heartfelt thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read the story. I know you're all busy people. To those of you who reviewed, I hope that I was able to answer any questions you may have had.

With that, and a warning to all practicing lawyers that I own nothing save what came from my own mind, I hope you enjoy chapter eight.

* * *

&

* * *

**Chapter Eight—By Demons Be Driven**

Once more, the Master Chief found himself in a Pelican with the natives. Sitting in the seats along the wall, or desperately holding onto the grips in the ceiling, was a strange and varied assortment. Dwarves, Plainsmen, even some soldiers that Bryn Shander had sent along when they'd gone back to warn the town. They made small talk with each other, or muttered under their breath. Everyone, though, seemed to be keeping a wide berth around him, Johnson, and Orna.

He wasn't surprised. While he had helped, he and his two comrades represented an unknown element, an enigma that wasn't truly understood. Neeshka didn't seem to be bothered by them, though. Neither did Bruenor, and both he and the Tiefling seemed eager to understand all that they could about the weapons that the UNSC issued to its soldiers, especially the Oracles that he and Johnson were carrying.

"So what exactly are these things?" Neeshka asked. Her helmet was off, and she was staring at the massive sniper rifle in a manner that told John that she was used to trying to analyze the value of weaponry and other war materials.

"S02-Ms," Johnson said. "We call them Oracles, usually. It's a long range sniper weapon, anti-infantry classification." He stopped with those technical details, and then reached into a kit next to him, pulling out a long, tubular device that he attached to the end of the flared barrel.

"And what is that?" Bruenor raised an eyebrow.

"Suppressor," the Master Chief said, reaching into the weapons locker above his head and pulling out one for himself. "Makes the gun quieter, so you can use it without being detected. It also hides the muzzle flash."

The Spartan did a last minute check of the Oracle in his hands. The sights and scope were both calibrated for him, as was the smart link system. He could also be a tad more liberal at where he aimed, as the gun was currently loaded with subsonic ammunition.

This was necessary to avoid the double shockwave that the normal, hypersonic rounds gave off, which could betray his position.

His MA5B was also similarly equipped, currently loaded with subsonic shredder rounds. Though he did have normal ones for when the infiltration segment of the mission was over with.

They were, however, bringing some heavier weapons along with them. When the Dawn had shipped out for the Ark, she'd had several state of the art weapons and add-ons onboard her. However, time constraints prevented them from being distributed before now, and they were too powerful for the instances where they had engaged in combat on this world so far. Now that they wouldn't have to worry about civilians milling in among hostiles, though, they could be a little less selective when targeting large groups.

The Spartan palmed the M-608 GDS attached to the bottom of his assault rifle. Standing for Grenade Delivery System, it was an ugly, tubular piece of machinery with several knobs and dials near the rear. It featured a fifty millimeter wide barrel and a rear fed tube for launching specially designed grenades via electro-magnetic acceleration. At the moment, both the Master Chief and Johnson were carrying a mix of fragmentary and white phosphorus incendiaries.

The Pelican began to slow down, and he made his way towards the door at the rear. It opened and a beautiful, almost pristine sunset spilled orange, red, and purple light into the troop bay. He hopped out of the drop ship, and looked around at the surroundings. He interfaced with the smart link of his scope, and began to stare around at the mountains, the infrared scope turned on. Once he was certain that the area was secure, he motioned towards the others, and they began to spill out of the craft.

Cortana's remote controlled UAV and the other Pelican had tracked the Orcs and Luskans deep into the mountains. There was a trail through them that would turn south a few kilometers in. No doubt, they were hoping to use that to lose any pursuit, while simultaneously moving around the Ten Towns and any other regional powers. The trail would also make it easier for the younger and older slaves to be moved without the risk of losing them.

This information had been relayed to the bulk of the remaining Plainsmen, and a force of about two hundred strong was here waiting for them. They approached cautiously, and John saluted Revajik as the Plainsman King walked up to them.

As Johnson, Orna, and the natives piled off the transport behind him, the Chief reached down into his supply belt, and brought out a portable hologram generator. Over three hundred square kilometers of terrain sprang to life. The group drew closer, staring at it.

"Cortana, zoom in on the camp and bring up the data feed for it," John said, placing the small device on the ground and taking a knee next to it. Different colors sprang to life, each one detailing where guard patrols were being set up, where Luskans and Orcs were clustered, and finally, in the center, a large gold area, representing the captured plainsmen.

"Okay," Keyes said over the radio. Her Pelican was still a few klicks off, but she was looking at the same holomap. "First order of business is the elimination of the patrols and sentries. That task falls to the Master Chief and Sergeant Major Johnson." Details sprang up, indicating the paths that the patrols took, what intervals they operated at, and how many made up each one.

"The patrols appear to mainly be Luskan scouts," The Spartan said, gesturing towards the outermost ring. "They're lightly armed, and lightly armored, but they seem to know the terrain well enough. Orcs make up the interior, and they aren't as… disciplined, in regards to their work. Once they're down, Johnson will set up on this ridge here," he pointed to one that was about a half kilometer away from the majority of the camp, "while I take this one over here to the west."

The natives, especially Neeshka and Drizzt, nodded their heads. From both of these ridges, they would have a complete view of the camp, and be able to cut down anyone at will. "We'll be sniping, looking for targets of opportunity, group leaders, any chiefs or similar officers. Should be somewhat simple, they look like they're trying to pack up, so the camp's already in partial disarray."

"With luck, we might even be able turn their own insecurities against them," Johnson remarked, chuckling slightly. "Let them start killing each other, then move in and mop up the survivors."

"A possibility, but don't plan on it," Cortana remarked.

"Agreed," the Master Chief said. "Once the scouts are neutralized and the perimeter sentries are taken out, we'll begin phase two." The decals on the hologram changed slightly. "Cooperation is going to be paramount here. The slightest slip up, and people are going to start dying." He let the sentence hang in the air, so they could understand exactly what was at stake. "Bruenor, you and your soldiers are the best equipped and most well trained," he heard several of the Plainsmen snort at that remark, and he looked up at them. They fell silent, and he continued. "We need you to form up, and try and get towards the prisoners, just in case the Luskans decide to start killing them as well. The plainsmen will assist you, as will Orna." He stared intently at the Dwarf. "Hit hard, and hit fast, do not engage in unnecessary fights."

"Hostage rescue isn't exactly our forte, are you sure about this?" The Dwarf frowned and crossed his arms.

"Look, the Chief's been doing this sort of infiltration and assault operations for more than forty years. Trust us, he knows what he's doing." Cortana said.

Silence permeated the air for a few seconds, but then Bruenor nodded somberly.

"Good," the Spartan reached down into his supply belt, and started drawing out some small, angular devices. "Now these are commlinks. I need the designated leaders for both groups," he looked at Revajik and Bruenor, "to put them on. They'll allow you to communicate with us from any point on the battlefield. If you're getting bogged down, let us know, and Johnson or I will provide cover fire and take out what we can. If it's really heavy, a group of fifty or more, let Cortana and Commander Keyes know, and they'll provide assistance with one of the Pelicans."

"Who's the other one for?" Neeshka asked, scratching her head slightly.

"Drizzt," John said, tossing the device towards the Drow, who deftly caught it, stared at it for a moment, and then, with some reluctance, put it in his ear. "You've already got a radio built into your helmet. What I need for you two to do is to move around together and try to figure out who's in charge of the Luskans."

"Not following you," the Tiefling said.

"That Spider Cleric may have been in charge of the operation, but these people would have had their own chain of command to operate under. We didn't spot an individual who stood out or seemed to be issuing orders during the raid, so he's probably still alive. Sneak through the camp, see if you can find him, and capture him."

"You want information from him, don't you?" Drizzt cocked his head to one side.

"Correct." The cyborg nodded his head. "From the information you've provided us with, and what Briza revealed, it seems as though Luskan is getting ready to start a war up here. This individual might have data on certain weaknesses that we can exploit."

"Stab them before they stab you,' Neeshka said. "I like the way you think."

The Spartan nodded, and then continued the briefing. "A couple of final notes. First, remember, do not break radio silence, speak, or attack until after we initiate phase two. When you hear the word 'Dynamic' coming from me, start your parts. Until then, use the hand signals that we showed you."

"What if we get spotted?" Wulfgar asked.

"Take them out quietly if you can. If the camp's alerted to our presence, things get harder." The Master Chief looked up at him as he spoke, and then back down to the map. "If we're prematurely discovered, you're free to break radio silence." Then he looked over to Drizzt and Neeshka. "I want you two to stay together. It'll make it easier to keep track of you, and you can watch each others backs. Understood?"

The two of them nodded.

"Well then, let's get this show on the road," Johnson said. "Daylight's about gone, and I'm in the mood for a little nighttime hunting."

It took them only a few moments to gather up their stuff, and then they were on their way. The Pelicans remained behind, lest their noise give away the group. They would, however, be able to reach them in a matter of moments once support was called in, or phase two of the rescue operation was under way.

Moradin grumbled as he moved around the fortress that Helm resided in. The human god was hard to find at the moment, and the Dwarven deity had a bone to pick with him. He'd searched just about every square inch of the compound, and so far found nothing.

There was only one place left to search: Helm's inner sanctum.

Moradin turned a corner, and not surprisingly, found the hallway lined with angelic soldiers. Some had been created by the God's will; others were mortal heroes whose deeds and skill were sufficient to earn them an honored place at their deity's side. All were heavily armed with a variety of weapons, and sported heavy armor. None, however, moved to stop the Dwarf as he marched through.

The Dwarf entered the sanctum, and got the surprise of his eons long life.

Helm was conversing with an infernal. The Devil—for he recognized the smell of a Baazetu—was walking about freely at the God's side, not bound by a summoning circle or any wards that could be seen. The Baazetu was in its humanoid form, and appeared to be a blue skinned man wearing crimson and off black robes. Nonetheless, Moradin could see through disguise, and recognized the Pit Fiend for what he was.

"You're absolutely certain that's where he'll be?" Helm asked, looking over to the fiend.

"Yes," the Devil responded. "Are you certain that you can handle him?"

"It will be a difficult fight, but I believe I can exploit his weaknesses properly." Helm responded with a shake of his head. "You have my thanks for the information."

"No thanks are necessary," the devil shook his head. "We stand to benefit just as much as you do from the fool's fall."

"Very well," Helm bowed. "That is all I required, Mephasm, you may take your leave."

Mephasm said nothing, but merely shifted out of the plane.

"What was that all about?" Moradin asked after a moment.

"Planning, in advance." Helm held up a finger and then turned around to face his friend. "Before you ask, you needn't worry. I haven't filled them in regarding everything, just that I intend to make a move against Demogorgon when the Weave shatters." He nodded over towards a small box at the far end of the sanctum. Even from this distance, Moradin could feel the wards and traps that guarded the box.

He wasn't certain what was in that thing, but he knew that it had to be something important.

"So when do they start to mobilize to take back Mirthril hall? Every day they delay…"

"Timing is everything, my friend. The opportune moment will arise soon enough. Until then allies have to be gathered, and alliances forged." Helm said, with a mysterious smile.

* * *

The Master Chief brought his fist up, and then gestured for those behind him to get down. They had reached the areas where the outer patrols were set up, and the natives, with the exception of Drizzt and Neeshka were going to hold here, inside of a small copse of pine trees and evergreens. He spared a look back over them, and double checked everyone's equipment. Green triangles that were splashed on his HUD flickered over the head of everyone wearing a commlink, as well as Johnson and Neeshka. Up in the sky, more than a kilometer in the air, a white triangle symbolized where the remote UAV was.

He turned to the Tiefling, the Drow, and Johnson, and motioned for them to fall in behind him. They did so, and with his assault rifle braced against his shoulder, the Spartan led the way.

"First sentry group three hundred meters and closing. UAV detects six men." Cortana said to him and Johnson.

Both the cyborg and the ODST had their external speakers turned off, and so they winked the acknowledgement lights on their HUD. The Master Chief motioned for Neeshka and Drizzt to get down behind some rocks.

Spartan and Helljumper ducked behind a series of rocks and double checked their assault rifles.

The Master Chief opened up a private communications line with Johnson. "You take the ones on the left, I'll take right."

His acknowledgement light blinked blue, indicating an affirmative. A sub-window opened up on his HUD a moment later as the UAV zoomed in on the patrol. The Chief could hear bits and pieces of hushed conversations among the men of the patrol, and noticed that they were packed tightly together, those with shields had them raised, and everyone had their weapons out. They were alert, and spooked by what had happened with the raid on the Plainsmen village earlier.

"I'm telling you, I've got a bad feeling about this whole thing… those things were demons, they had to be."

"Like the barbarians would really know that kind of stuff. You know they hate magic, think it's only used by the weak."

"Then what the hell were those things? And what if they hunt us down?"

So it went. The Spartan almost smiled at the irony of their statements. Then he looked over to Johnson. The Sergeant was ready as ever. It took another minute or so for them to round the bend in the trail that would put them in sight. The Spartan watched his HUD intently. Once the targets were inside of one hundred and fifty meters, he decided to strike.

"Now!" he hissed to Johnson.

Both men popped up over the rocks and took aim. The soldiers saw movement, but could not make out precisely what it was in the dark. Even if they had been able to, it wouldn't have helped them. The MA5B's gave three muffled coughs apiece, and all six with down to expertly placed head or heart shots.

The Master Chief signaled for the group to move forward, and Neeshka and Drizzt got their feet. The group moved over rocks and through sparse bits of foliage that were too stubborn to realize where they were trying to grow.

Another heads up from Cortana came about two minutes later, and they prepared themselves for another six-man patrol. This time, the crags were becoming more prominent, and the four of them went prone on a large rock face some twenty feet above the ground.

The first of the soldiers came into sight once again. On the Spartan's infrared sensors, they stood out as brightly glowing targets, acutely defined objects of white, range and red in a realm of blue, purple, and black.

"Hot in three… two… one…" the Spartan whispered over the private commline.

Once again, the MA5B's gave muffled coughs. The Luskans went down, their bodies internally shredded by the steel, lead, and tungsten alloy rounds that they'd been hit with.

"Next group is four hundred meters out, move quickly," Cortana said.

The Master Chief winked an acknowledgment light, and motioned for everyone to get up. The group hopped down the rocks, trying to avoid making a single sound that would betray their presence.

A few scraggy pines were growing along the next part of the trail, and the team took cover behind it. This patrol would be slightly larger, carrying nine people instead of six, and they'd need to move faster before an alarm could be sounded. Mountains had an annoying tendency to echo, and even if the man didn't get more than a few meters before getting a 7.62 round in the back, he might still give them away.

He saw them coming, lined up his assault rifle, and squeezed the trigger. There was a faint kick against his shoulder, and the man's head disintegrated inside of his chain mail coif. The patrol leader went down as Johnson mimicked his superior. Two more fell as the Spartan fired towards center mass, ripping fist sized holes straight through their bodies.

And so it went. Time and again, they took cover, waited for their prey to arrive, and then cut them down mercilessly. There were ten patrols in all, and none of them were able to get off so much as a shout before dying.

Eventually the team split, with Johnson heading east, while the Master Chief took the western edge of the camp, snake crawling up the rocks to their designated sniper positions. Neeshka and Drizzt hugged the sides of the cliffs moving along the ground, searching for the mysterious head of the Luskans.

The Master Chief could see the fires burning brightly on his infrared scanners. The Spartan decided to rely more on his natural night vision than the sensor, given the chance of the heat affecting his aim and perception… and what they were about to unleash. The myriad of false colors faded, and everything returned to normal.

The cyborg scanned around the camp, looking for targets of opportunity. In the chaos of everyone packing up, the place was rife with them. He saw food stocks, a blacksmith and a fletcher, leather works, and a wagon train for carrying it all. There were also troop concentrations all over the place. They were huddled around campfires, staring into the flames while they ate or talked. The Spartan frowned. Didn't they know how badly something like that would destroy their night vision? You always kept your back to a fire.

"Strike teams, move up the trail, stop after six hundred yards," he whispered into his mike after he opened up a temporary radio channel with them. His HUD told them that they were moving, and then he took stock of where Johnson and the others were. The Helljumper was in position, and ready to unleash a deadly rain of high precision fire into the camp.

The Spartan drew his Oracle and began to look through the camp. The sentries along the extreme perimeter would be the first ones to die. His sights settled on one, an Orc that appeared to be skulking in the dark, upset at having drawn this shift from the duty roster. Any complaints the brute might have had left his mind a second later, along with most of the gray matter itself.

Muffled coughs, inaudible to anyone standing more than a few feet away, crisscrossed through the camp, each one marking the end of a life.

Once they were down, the two men moved on to the next objective: targets of opportunity. The Spartan stared about, and noticed that around one of the fires was an Orc that was carrying different equipment from his fellows. His plate armor covered most of his body, and by his side was an axe almost as large as he was. A sergeant, or perhaps a group chieftain, John mused. He settled the targeting reticule upon the humanoid, right on his left temple.

"The UAV and Pelican scanners don't detect anything that looks like civilians being held inside the military tents. They must have orders to leave them be." Cortana said.

Good, John though, they could be even less discriminate.

"Begin phase two, repeat, Dynamic, Dynamic," he said, right before he squeezed the trigger.

The Orc's head exploded like a boil, showering his comrades with his brains and skull fragments. Johnson also went hot, his identification triangle turning yellow to indicate that he was firing his weapon.

The Spartan started targeting others that seemed to be higher up on the command chain, tearing enormous holes in their bodies, or decapitating them with precision rifle fire.

"Strike teams five hundred meters and closing," Cortana said.

"Acknowledged," the Master Chief said, placing his rifle down at his side. He then drew the MA5B, and armed the GDS attached to it.

It was loaded with a phosphorus grenade at the moment, and he took aim at the largest concentration of troops that he could find. They were over by a communal kitchen, getting bowls of food, or had been, rather. Now they had dropped their chow and were hastily pawing at weapons. Behind them was a vast majority of the wagon train that was supplying this camp.

He squeezed the trigger on the grenade launcher. Electromagnets did their work, hurling the round out at nearly twice the speed of sound, leaving behind a faint 'foomp' noise. The minute crack it made was drowned out by what followed. A moment prior to impact, a micro charge inside of the grenade detonated, spreading the phosphorus around and igniting it. The results would have been absolutely horrific to anyone who had not seen the carnage of a modern battlefield.

A twenty-meter wide spray of flames went out, white hot. White Phosphorus burned hot, far hotter than a standard combustion flame. Flesh, leather, wood, hair, steel, it didn't care. It even burned underwater. Men and women ran to and fro, some throwing themselves onto the ground to desperately try to put out the flames that were eating through their clothes and starting to consume their flesh. All they did was help to spread the fire. It latched onto the wood and pitch of the wagons, and like an insatiable beast, set them alight as well.

The screams… The Master Chief knew that any Luskan or Orcish survivors of this night would carry those screams with them to the grave and beyond. There were few deaths more horrific than being burned alive, and it became even worse when the individual was screaming as the flakes of blazing phosphorus were burrowing into their skin, setting their bodies to fire from the inside out.

The Spartan loaded another incendiary, and fired it into a midst of troops that were paralyzed by the scene at the supply wagons. They joined their comrades in a series of fiery death throes a split second after Johnson's GDS reduced a group of Orcs to bits of meat and splashes of black-red blood.

In the face of firepower like this, the two groups quickly began to panic and run around like chickens with their heads cut off. The two soldiers, however, were utterly ruthless and methodical. The Master Chief launched a third phosphoric grenade right into the blacksmith. The coal and wood stored inside of it went off in an instant, creating a roaring blaze that would quickly engulf most of the camp. All the better. The more chaos, the easier it would be to dish out more havoc.

"I think we found the leader," Neeshka announced to them. "Big guy with the lightning enchanted sword coming out of the tent to the northeast."

John spared a glance, and sure enough, there was an armored soldier who was standing around shouting orders at the top of his lungs. His large, two handed blade had glowing bolts of electricity that would arc over the surface about every half second or so, and for a moment, the Chief was curious as to how you might do something like that. Then he focused back on the mission and fired a frag grenade into a bunch of milling Orcs.

"Think you can lure him away and isolate him?" the Spartan asked.

"We can try," Drizzt responded.

"Strike teams inside of three hundred meters," Cortana announced.

A ball of darkness suddenly formed up around a group of Luskans and Orcs that were trying to organize themselves. The Master Chief found that his night vision couldn't penetrate it, but focused on other targets for the moment.

"Drizzit, was that you?" Johnson asked as one of his incendiaries exploded along the camp perimeter, igniting an entire group of Orcs that had been trying to escape.

"Yes, and I think…" he trailed off as screams and cries came up from inside the orb. When the darkness cleared, most of the enveloped men, Orc and Human alike, were down in pools of their own blood. "Perfect."

Both sides stopped, and stared at each other, despite the carnage going on around them. The Orcs howled, and some of them charged at the Luskans. The Humans tried to form up, but were overrun before they could do so.

Johnson launched a frag grenade into the swarms below. It detonated with a loud boom, sending body parts everywhere.

"Good fricking God," the Helljumper muttered over the comlink. "I've seen leaderless Grunts that had more discipline than this."

"That's something I'll have to see to believe," Orna muttered.

"Target of opportunity on the western edge of the camp," Cortana announced. "Valkyrie missiles inbound."

The Spartan noticed a group of about three hundred Luskans and Orcs that were fighting each other in the chaos. A few seconds later, the whole bunch was enveloped as the Pelican's multi-purpose missiles detonated among them. Sporting a twenty kilo warhead, the weapons had an effective lethal shrapnel radius of about five hundred meters. Most of that, however, was absorbed by the large amount of bodies in the way.

"Strike teams, one hundred meters and closing," the A.I. said.

"Drizzt, grab that C.O. and get him out of there. You're running out of time," the Master Chief barked.

The Dark Elf said nothing. Instead, he pulled out a small crossbow and leveled it towards the man. The Drow fired, and the bolt connected with the man's shoulder. The officer gave a cry as it punched through his plate armor, and then he slumped to the ground, twitching faintly.

"Neeshka, come on, I'll need your help to move him," the Dark Elf said.

"Johnson, you cover them, I'll try to clear the way for the strike teams." The Master Chief said.

"Roger."

Two men who rushed to the aid of their commander did so only to die with a shredder round between their eyes. Both slumped back, the rears of their skulls scattered on the ground behind them.

John saw one Orc, larger than the rest, raise its war axe high into the air and shout. He couldn't see any identifying markings on the humanoid, or anything that would lend itself to the creature being of high social rank, but it did appear to be trying to rally the masses.

He fired a frag grenade at the humanoid. Half a second later, everything within ten meters of its position had been ripped apart by the shrapnel.

"We've almost dragged this guy away, keep them off us for a few more seconds," Neeshka shouted.

The Spartan turned his attention back towards the Tiefling and the Drow. A squad seemed to notice what they were up to, but before they could so much as twitch in the direction of their abducted commander, a series of well placed shots put them all down. Then the two were in the shadows, back in their element.

"Secondary objective complete," the Master Chief said.

"Roger that, saw it myself," Keyes radioed back.

"Targets in visual range!" Orna said as the strike teams rounded the final corner. A series of plasma bolts came from his twin rifles a moment later. Orcs were blasted off their feet, and Luskans cut down where they stood as the Sangheili Arbiter came in.

The Dwarves and Plainsmen screamed at the top of their lungs, their weapons reflecting the firelight and carnage that had torn through the camp like a tornado. The Luskans immediately tried to rally and face this new threat, with some of the Orcs realizing that they were under attack from a third party, and trying to join them. Others still lashed out blindly at anything that drew near them.

The Master Chief noticed what appeared to be a secondary commander ordering the troops into battle, and he loaded his last phosphorus grenade. The device enveloped the entire Luskan command group, with just the results that the Spartan was hoping for. The heat of the flames, well over two thousands degrees centigrade, drove everyone who hadn't been bathed in them staggered backwards, and those with combustibles on themselves, such as leather or fur equipment, that were too close found themselves turned into living torches anyway.

The command group itself descended into a howling gaggle of men and women pawing at leather armor that was burning them alive, or steel chain mail that was melting to their skin and muscles. More than a few were clawing at their faces at bits of impossibly hot phosphorus that had hit them there, causing skin to melt off their faces, eyes to liquefy in their sockets, and their exposed facial muscles and skull bones to become charred beyond recognition. Steam was everywhere as snow and ice were violently vaporized by the ambient heat.

The Luskan line barely held together, some men breaking and fleeing, while any semblance of order among the Orcs was now officially gone. The Spartan and ODST let them go for now. Given the illusion of a chance for escape, it was all the more likely that the group would break. He'd kill them if they got to close to the captives, but other than that…

"Cortana, can you move one of the Pelicans down towards the end of the trail?" he asked as he fired a few more rounds into the mass. Orna's plasma rifles continued to vaporize enormous chunks of metal, leather, and flesh as well.

"I can do that," he heard a smile in her voice. Cortana was usually caring and fairly compassionate, but true to her "mother" Doctor Halsey, the construct had a vicious streak—sometimes outright sadistic towards those she felt deserved it.

The Master Chief said nothing in return, only fired at a few more fringe elements. Then the Dwarves, Plainsmen, and Ten Towns soldiers, more than two hundred and fifty battle hardened soldiers, hit the panicking lines like a sledgehammer striking a block of ice. Arrows from Drizzt and Neeshka joined in, and combined with assault rifle fire, had the effect of utterly destroying the morale of the enemy soldiers. Scores—hundreds, broke and fled. The allied front kept pressing forward, the Dwarven and Human soldiers fighting with skill and fueled by centuries of hatred for the Orcs. The Plainsmen were more wild, but even more ferocious, fighting to reach their women, children, elders, and fellow warriors.

And then there was Orna. The Elite had drawn his plasma swords, and fought like a possessed being. Graced by power, endurance, and reflexes that nearly matched a Spartan, he was an army unto himself among his foes. It was like watching a wolf rampage among sheep, the cyborg thought to himself.

The Orcs broke to the north, no doubt planning to head deeper into the mountain range. A few Plainsmen looked to follow, but Keyes was quick to cut them off.

"Revajik, keep your people heading towards the captives. Cortana and I will deal with the retreating enemy forces." She shouted over the comm.

Seconds later, her Pelican appeared over the mountains. The drop ship got in-between the fleeing forces and the allied front, and now, with no need to worry about allies being in the way, Keyes was free to utilize the drop ship's weaponry as she saw fit.

A pair of Valkyrie missiles exploded at the flanks of the retreating Orcs, while the seventy millimeter chain gun mounted on the chin took care of the main body. It was over in seconds, and if any of the ones in the force were still alive, they didn't try to move or flee.

The Master Chief turned his attention back to Bruenor's group. They were making steady progress, now. The chaos that had been sowed was doing its deadly work. Try and flee rather than fight. They were throwing down their weapons and their shields and running away from the allied force that was pummeling them.

"Let them go, stay focused on your objective," the Master Chief said to the group commanders. He reloaded his assault rifle, and then took aim again. Some of the Luskans and Rocs were getting comfortably close to the pinned captives, and the Spartan opted to take them out. They were cut down like animals, with all the ruthless precision that dictated the actions of a UNSC soldier.

"Press on!" he heard Bruenor shout. This was followed by a scream, and he suspected that the Dwarven King had just cut another Luskan down.

"Enemy forces moving into a full on route," Cortana said.

"Revajik, Bruenor, chip away at the flanks and those that fall behind, but once you reach the captives, worry about securing them. Every thing else is secondary," the Spartan said as he put shredder rounds into the back of another pair of Luskan soldiers. Organs, or what was left of them, went flying out of the new holes in their bodies, and the extra movement pitched their dying bodies forward.

They landed face first in the mess that had once been their internals.

"Target opportunities diminished from current position, moving forward to provide assistance," the Spartan said.

It was true, the Luskans were a little too close to the captives now for him to take chances. Plus, it was possible that tales of hen and the others had spread, if the conversation the scouts were having was any indication. It was possible, given their current state of mind, that his mere presence would shatter any hope that the Luskans might attempt to reorganize.

It took the Spartan only a few seconds to make his way down the cliff, and charge into the camp. He moved past Drizzt and Neeshka, who were still shooting into what retreating soldiers they could target.

He heard shouting as soon as he entered and sure enough, there was a group of sixteen or so troops that were trying to form up. One of them reached into a belt pouch, and pulled out an object. It was spherical, and black, the cyborg noticed. He leveled his assault rifle, and fired it. The shot was dead on, ripping the man's head to pieces, but he'd already lobbed the object. The Spartan began to move, firing as he did, and mowing down more of them.

The object hit some twenty feet behind him, and the only warning he got was a sudden spike on his temperature gauge. Flames enveloped him, slowly draining his shields. However, while the fireball that the object had created was potent, it was brief and his armor and shielding systems weathered it without incident.

What he was unaware of was that among the captives was the young boy who had first seen him. Rognar had been seriously wounded during the attack, and was sporting a number of slash and arrow wounds to his body. His life had only been saved because of a timely healing potion by the Luskans, who did not wish to lose such a potentially valuable investment.

He saw the blast orb hit the ground near the golem, and saw flames envelope it that would have turned any man to ash, or turned steel red hot. He expected that to be the end of the thing. One could only imagine his surprise, and the surprise of the Luskans, Orcs, and other who witnessed the event, when the creature emerged completely unharmed from the fireball. Yellow lightning crackled over its green and black surface, and it leveled its weapon. He couldn't see or hear anything over the chaos of the melee, but the offending group of soldiers began to fly apart. Heads were shattered and scattered over the area, and holes the size of a man's head punched through their torsos.

There was also a strange demon, even more impossibly huge than the golem. Two swords of light were in its hands, and with super-human speed and grace, it carved through the remaining foes as they tried in vain to flee from it.

One man, a sergeant from the looks of his armor, tried to run away, screaming and sobbing at the top of his lungs. From thirty feet away, the demon leapt through the air. Its aim was perfect, and it came down right on the man's back, crushing him into the ground and silencing him forever.

In another minute it was all over. The Luskans had fled past their makeshift pin, running down the canyon and out of sight, around the curve in the mountain. It took a moment for reality to sink in, for them to realize just how quickly fate and fortune had changed. Then one of the tribal elders raised a fist into the air and gave a strained cheer. Another joined him, and then a woman, a young child. It spread like wildfire through the ranks of the captive people, and Rognar found himself joining in despite the aches in his body, and the chill on his skin.

The warriors of the Elk Tribe were already tearing apart the posts that made up their holding pin, and people were rushing out through any available hole they could find, some even bashing their own, now that the threat of being cut down where they stood had been removed.

"Shouldn't we be pursuing the bastards?" he heard one man say as he finally managed to get out in the open.

The man was a soldier from Ten Towns, judging by his armor.

"I don't think that will be necessary," Wulfgar said, Ageis-Fang, bloody and dripping a steady stream of gore, was held in his right hand. He turned to face the golem and the demon. "I saw one of their contraptions fly overhead and move down into the canyon. It's waiting for them there, isn't it?"

Before an answer could be made, Rognar heard screaming, the screaming of hundreds, perhaps, to be heard so far away. This was followed by a sound he had never heard before in his life. It was loud, and seemed to be a combination of a high-pitched whine and a loud boom. It drowned the screaming out, and was swiftly followed by another, and another. There were nine in all, and less than a minute after that, another one of the large flying craft came from where the noise had been.

"Answer your question?" a new voice said, and Rognar watched a smaller, black figure walk up.

"The first objective is to load up the ones who are critically wounded and in need of medical aide. Once that's taken care of, we have an interrogation to start." The young lad frowned. He heard the voice of a woman, but couldn't figure out where it was coming from. He scratched his head and looked up at the group. Wulfgar saw him, and came over to him. The enormous warrior towered over him, and started looking him over.

"Might want to get these looked at, before they become infected," he pointed to the scabs that ran along his chest and arms. The young boy nodded.

"He'll have to wait for the second load, we've got more serious cases at the moment," said another woman.

"Agreed," the first female said. "Master Chief, Sergeant Johnson, help get these people loaded, and then go have a chat with that captain."

"Yes ma'am." The two golems said at the same time. Then they started over towards the mass of captives. They were soon helping the worst cases onto their flying craft.

As they finished, the Master Chief and Johnson walked back over to where Drizzt and Neeshka had left the captain. The man was still on his back, paralyzed by whatever the Dark Elf had hit him with. He pulled the bolt out, and pocketed it. Cortana would be interested in seeing what the head of the bolt had been coated with. The man could still control his movements a bit, as he was moving his eyes, and when the Spartan picked him up by the catches of his cloak, he whimpered audibly.

It was to be expected, as here was this large green… thing, that had just helped to slaughter the entirety of his expeditionary force, and that of the Orcs, and now it was holding him more than three feet off the ground with a single hand.

"Were you in charge of this operation?" The Master Chief asked. He allowed a little bit of menace to work its way into his voice.

"Y-yes," the Luskan gulped as the others drew close. "The Hosttower charged me with securing these captives. They were to help us build up war materials and take over menial labor so that we could conscript and prepare more troops for the upcoming battle." He whimpered some more at the grip around his cloak tightened. The Master Chief watched the captain stare down at him.

How terrifying must it have been for him to look at something like a Spartan? To stare into that cold, emotionless visor, and see no mercy, no pity, no feelings whatsoever. Mendez had always drilled using psychological warfare to its greatest potential on the battlefield, one reason that John was so pleased for the Spartan's reputations as angels of death and destruction to permeate through the Covenant ranks. It made their army scared of them. They were more likely to panic and make a mistake if they realized just what they were up against.

This man would have had no way of knowing that, but the sight of an armored Spartan was always imposing, especially considering what he had just done.

"Your battle plans, what do you know of them?" the Spartan asked.

"I don't know much," the man gulped, and placed his hands reflexively around the Spartan's massive fist. "Only that Neverwinter was our first target. From there, we were to move down the coast and secure it so that the Drow and their allies, when they reached the surface, could begin securing and utilizing the ports."

"Why am I not surprised?" Neeshka groaned, tapping a finger to her helmet. "What is it with you guys and your obsession with Neverwinter. You should seriously see a cleric about it. I mean, really," she shook her head and spread her arms, "frothing at the mouth at the mere mention of that city cannot possibly be good for your health."

"What else can you tell me?" John asked, tightening his grip just a little more.

"Nothing, nothing at all! I swear!" the man screamed. The cyborg noticed a growing stain down the leather of the man's trousers, and his face wrinkled in disgust. The captain had just soiled himself. The way that the natives like Drizzt and Bruenor were now sniffing at the air made him tempted to roll his eyes inside of his helmet. He resisted though, and focused back on his captive.

"You're sure," he reached back over his shoulder, his free hand grasping at the grip of his rifle.

The Luskan burst into a new set of futile struggles, flopping around in the Spartan's iron hard grip like a fish out of water. "Yes! I promise you! I swear on my mother's grave!"

"Hah, like a Luskan's promise is any good," Neeshka crossed her arms as she spoke, and John noticed that her tail was twitching back and forth in agitation.

The Master Chief stared back into the eyes of his captive. The captain's face was a dictionary definition in terror and fear, pale despite the cold, his eyes wide, his chest heaving in hyperventilation. "Gods, please, don't kill me, I've told you everything!"

"Commander," the Spartan said, as he switched off his external speakers and opened up a commline. "I've interrogated the prisoner, and I think he's out of information. Do we need him for anything else?"

"Don't think so, check and see if he's of any value alive," Keyes responded.

"How much value is placed on the lives of a Luskan officer?" the Spartan inquired, turning to face Drizzt and the others.

"Precious little," Bruenor rumbled. "Their kind run through the streets by the thousands. You can't go anywhere without stepping on someone looking to rise in the ranks of the city guard."

"Please…" the man begged. He was close to sobbing. Once more, the Chief's lips curled in disgust. He was tempted to reach for his rifle and silence the man there. But then he thought of a better idea.

"I don't have the right to judge you," he mused aloud, before turning and heading back towards the mass of Plainsmen that were gathering what they could from the ruins of the camp. "But there are some people here that you've… wronged… today. I think it rather fitting that they be the ones to decide your fate."

He found Revajik and Wulfgar easily enough, as the latter towered head and shoulders over his fellow Plainsmen. The Spartan causally tossed the man before the group. "We're through with him. Do as you please."

There was a moment of silence, and then Wulfgar started to palm his hammer, while others stroked their weapons. In moments, they swarmed around him. The man screamed and thrashed, but was no match for the powerful warriors that surrounded him. Cries went out for wood and rope to be brought, along with any tent stakes that survived.

"What are they doing?" Johnson muttered as he drew close to the Chief, tapping his finger to the chin of his ODST helmet.

Bits of armor started to fly from the circle as the requested materials were brought up. The breastplate and a gauntlet fell close to the group.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say they were making some manner of yolk, or the like," Orna mused, his mandibles twitching.

Sure enough, a cross was soon erected, and the man lashed to it. The Master Chief noticed that his armor, leather padding and other clothes were now gone, stripped and taken by the group, and he was clad only in a stained and soiled loincloth. He stared at his temperature gauge. It was currently reading more than twenty-five degrees below zero. A quick flip over to thermal vision revealed that parts of the man's extremities were already starting to lose valuable body heat.

"He won't last more than thirty minutes like that," John said, matter-of-factly.

"He violated our people, and our land," Revajik said, turning and staring at the Spartan. The Master Chief noticed the raw hatred in the eyes of the king. "Let the land claim him, and let him hang here as a warning to everyone else who would dare try this."

The Spartan nodded. Chief Mendez would approve.

"First load dropped off, we're returning for the second," Keyes said. "Cortana's remotely activating the Longsword, we'll be able to carry more that way."

"How long can you keep them at your Spell Jammer?" Bruenor asked.

"Not more than two days, I'm afraid," Keyes said, speaking through the commlinks. "The Dawn's equipped for a five thousand hand crew, usually. But right now, we're cut off from resupply, and a long way from home. I'd rather not strain our resources if we can't help it."

"Our fortress may not be suited to creature's of Plainsmen height," Bruenor said, "but we can keep some with us, at least until they can get their village back together. Ten Towns can likely help the rest. They've got a lot of room, with the battle against Kessel having left so many dead."

"In the meantime," Cortana said. "We've made a deal with Casius in Bryn Shander to help transport food and supplies to Ten Towns in exchange for this dragon horde you've got."

"Indeed?" Revajik raised an eyebrow. He seemed wary. Evidence of bad promises in the past, the Chief wondered. "And what portion of it are we to give to you in exchange."

"Nothing," Keyes said. "We're more interested in learning the lay of the land at the moment."

The Plainsmen King frowned. "That seems, rather generous of you. I know we're not what you people consider 'civilized' but we have our honor. You've helped us greatly. It demands that we must do something in return for us."

"Commander, we still need to get that pipeline built, and see if we can get a mining operation going to get to that uranium and tungsten deposits that our scanners picked up." Johnson suggested.

"True," Keyes responded. "We'll discuss it later, once we get everyone stocked away for the night."

"I agree, the sooner my people are in some kind of shelter, the better," Revajik said. Then he quietly took the earpiece off. "Tell me, if I may ask, exactly what is this Spell Jammer of yours like? My people are nervous around the… arcane arts."

Wulfgar chuckled and placed a hand on the older man's shoulder. "Well, that is quiet the tale to tell."

As the Plainsman started to speak of the wonders he had seen there, The Master Chief noticed that Drizzt had a scowl on his face.

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&

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Well, hope that wasn't too nausea inducing for people. As another warning, the GDS is will one of several devices that I felt as a military the UNSC should have had access to. It won't be too many things, just three or four devices that will be gradually introduced in the chapters to come, but I hope you will like them.

With that, I am always open to advice, ideas, constructive criticisms, and input of any type. Even flames are accepted, on the grounds that I can use them in the winter to keep my power bill down.

Hehe, well, until next time, stay safe, folks.


	10. Chapter Nine—Unexpected Arrivals

Hidi-ho, my friends. Sorry about the huge delay between updates (raises riot shield). Suffice to say that I've just gone through most of my midterms… and Lord… I never before have known an exam quite like those.

But enough of my problems. Just want to once again extend my thanks to all who have read the story, and to everyone who has reviewed as well. I cannot thank you enough for the time and effort you put into this.

TL, since I cannot respond to you directly, I'll say that most of the technical details will show up later in the story for why things are the way they are (mostly, I'm attempting to get a bit of a balance here, not sure how well it'll work out though). As for Bruenor, much to my shame, I can't do a decent accent to save my life.

Now, the disclaimer: I hereby affirm that I neither intend to profit from the promotion or use of the characters here nor claim ownership of them, save those that are the product of my demented imagination (so sue away. I'm already in the hole for my student loans, so the joke'll be you).

* * *

**Chapter Nine—Unexpected Arrivals**

* * *

The Master Chief double-checked the storage bin above his head, making certain that the weapons were secured and locked away. Then he turned and sat down, his massive form causing the Pelican seat to groan beneath him. Orna and Johnson sat across from him, with Neeshka nearer to the front of the craft. Keyes was in the cockpit, overseeing the final takeoff procedures.

The past thirty-six hours had been hectic, to say the least. Overseeing the migration of more than three thousand people was not an easy thing to do. No one had gotten more than a few hours of sleep. However, while there might have been the urge to pat themselves on the back for a job well done, the UNSC soldiers knew that there was still work to be done before rest could be enjoyed.

For starters, Neeshka had to be taken back to the city of Neverwinter, and this Lord Nasher fellow needed to know that Luskan was gunning for his city. And so they had all popped combat stims, and piled in.

The docking bay doors opened, and the Pelican shot out. It quickly reached hypersonic speeds, leaving a double shockwave behind itself. Moving at a velocity exceeding six thousand meters a second, the journey to Neverwinter, if Neeshka's directions were correct, wouldn't take more than a few minutes.

"So what can you tell us about this Lord Nasher guy?" Cortana asked.

"Well," Neeshka said, bringing her hands up to her chin, "in his younger days, he used to be an adventurer—a catch-all term we used to describe someone who goes around looking for trouble by looting tombs and taking on odd jobs for people—but that was years ago." She paused. "He's pretty fair in his judgment. I mean, look at me. He could have thrown me in irons and tossed me into a cell till Asmodius died of old age. Instead, he takes me and makes me one of his agents. Especially rare, if you consider what I am."

The Master Chief nodded. So they weren't dealing with a tyrant. Good. That would make negotiations easier. The Spartan wondered what the people of Neverwinter would think though. Thus far, they had been met with fear at almost every turn. Casius had been eager for an alliance, but that was out of necessity. The Plainsmen were now the closest thing one could call to a staunch friend, but that was because they had helped save their people from enslavement and annihilation, and that the other Pelican was currently making supply runs between them and Ten Towns.

Neeshka spoke more of the city, and something surprised the Chief. She was telling them about the walls, the defenses, the skill of the soldiers, and the town's history. Its many wars against the Orcs and Luskan to hold onto their little spot on the map, the arcane forces brought against it time and again, and the heroes that had risen up to try and quell the threat.

Those were vital statistics and information, things to be carefully hidden… unless the listening party was trusted explicitly not to betray the information. The Chief smiled to himself. Maybe they were making friends here after all.

There was something that puzzled the Spartan about the girl, though. Her face, there was something about it that seemed hauntingly familiar to him. It lapped at the edges of his memory, just out of reach, and he wondered what it could be. Her carefree, vivacious attitude reminded him a lot of Kelly, but aside from that, she had nothing in common with the Spartan scout.

He frowned, but put it aside. There would be time for that later.

"Approaching population center," Cortana announced. "Recommend we start slowing down. I don't think shattering every window in the town would be a good way to make a first impression."

Keyes said nothing, but the Master Chief could feel the dropship coming to a stop. Once the shockwaves behind them had dissipated, they started forward again, moving at a comparatively slow three hundred kilometers an hour.

It had been decided that this time, since Neeshka was on the city's employ, and the guards were more likely to trust her, that the Pelican would bring them all the way to the front gates. This might also help put on a display of power, and convince Nasher of the benefits of an alliance.

As they drew close, the Pelican swung around and its back door opened. A faint bit of morning light poured through, but for the most part, the interior remained dark. The sun had not yet risen above the city walls.

Neeshka moved out first, slinging her duffel bag over her shoulder and heading out. She paused for a moment to remove her helmet and tuck it under her shoulder, and then she hopped off the short landing ramp, before marching up the thirty meter distance that separated the Pelican from the walls of the city of Neverwinter.

The Master Chief could feel the eyes of dozens, possibly hundreds of guards upon him and the craft he was on. He and the other paused long enough to gather up a selection of weapons they wished to display to Lord Nasher, and then the Spartan edged out, making certain that his supplies were secure in his webbing, belts, and bandoliers before taking a step off the end of the ship.

No crossbow bolts, arrows, or vials of flaming oil came towards him, or any more of those grenade type devices. He was aware of the other three gathering at the rear of the Pelican a few meters behind him, hiding in the shadows of the craft. It had been decided that Chief would move out after Neeshka, followed by Johnson and Keyes. Orna would come last, as it would be best not to alarm them too quickly with a creature that was apparently thought a demon on this world.

Much to his surprise, the guards at the gate were saluting the Tiefling and didn't seem to be too terribly alarmed by the Spartan's presence. Slowly, he started to walk towards them. As he drew closer, some of them did start to look surprised at his massive bulk, but the cyborg was equally mystified about them. Neither his gait nor his pose would have given anything away, but the Spartan was amazed by the quality of equipment that these soldiers were equipped with.

Finely made chain mesh clinked together as the guards moved and conversed, while the sergeant was clad in spectacularly made plate armor. If these were just the soldiers assigned to guard the gates, then what did the elite soldiers wear? The knights? Lord Nasher's bodyguards? This city must have had access to an enormous amount of quality metal ore in order to outfit their soldiers like this.

Some of them gasped suddenly, and the Spartan knew that Orna had stepped out of the Pelican and was now walking towards them. The Sangehili moved forward slowly so as not to further alarm the guards, occasionally double checking the straps on the back-pack styled power cell he was carrying.

"Don't worry about it, he's with me," Neeshka said with a dismissive wave.

The guards did not seem entirely convinced, but they sighed and stood away. One of them remained next to the Tiefling, though, and motioned for them to follow.

"This way," he said, moving past the gates and deeper into the town.

The Master Chief gazed around the city as they moved inside of it. For a Medieval Era, it seemed surprisingly advanced. Late Gothic, if his history lessons were correct. High arches characterized the larger buildings, along with a myriad of buttresses. The houses that the civilians lived in appeared to have shingled roofs and be made of either wood or stone. They were also laid out in a very orderly fashion. Great care and planning had gone into this city, rather than the haphazard and seemingly random construction that he'd found in Bryn Shander.

They reached a square and were assaulted by the noise of city life. Merchants were hawking wares; each one crying out that theirs was the best, and available for the cheapest amount of gold. Even here, great organization seemed to be in place. Stands that were selling dried fruit and smoked vegetables and meat were organized close to one another. Next to them was what appeared to be a series of bakeries, judging by the people that were walking out with loaves of bread tucked under their arms.

Further down the road (which he noted was finely paved and cobbled) were other merchants. Some of these were selling standard items that one might expect to find in a city like this: salt, leather goods, baskets, even a metal smith offering various trinkets made of gold, silver, and copper. He noticed little in them that could tell him the culture of the place, though.

He tried to ignore the stares and the sudden quietness that enveloped the area as more and more of the local citizenry became aware of what was going on, of the group of strangers that were moving through their city. Whispers soon sprang up, some of them loud enough and careless enough hat he couldn't help but overhear them.

"What in the name of the gods?" a man selling fish remarked.

"Who are those… what are those?" a woman operating a shoemaker store whispered to a companion.

"They're with that demon girl," he heard someone say just a might bit too loud, he gave the person a stare, noting the slim build and the pointed ears. They looked like a lighter skinned version of Drizzt. A surface Elf, he supposed.

Evidence of racial prejudice, he thought to himself. If that was the norm, and the kingdoms of this world splintered up into regions that only had control over a region within a few dozen to a few hundred miles of the capital, he could see why the Drow would be interested in taking them over. Fractured and disunited, a powerful outside force could take these places over piecemeal, without ever having to worry about facing a large, united assault force.

It was a lesson that Earth humanity had learned very well. It had been driven home by the gladii, philums, and ballistae of the Roman Legionaries under the Caesars in the first two centuries A.D when they had conquered nearly half of the known world, and held it for almost a thousand years. Genghis Khan's cavalry archers had devastated the petty kingdoms of Asia, Russia, and nearly all of Europe in similar fashion, creating the largest empire the world had seen up till then. The British, with their rifles and enormous war fleets, had done it until their consecrated and conquered lands literally stretched over the entire planet.

And then the UNSC's predecessor, the Allied Nations' Defense Initiative, forged together from an alliance of the United States, Germany, and Australia (the only countries with anything that resembled an intact military and infrastructure in the wake of the third world war) had used these tactics to slowly bind the entire world together, at long last achieving the dream of putting all of humanity under a single flag.

This disunity would also mean that securing allies against the Drow's aggression would be all the harder. These kings, regents, and oligarchies wouldn't budge unless they thought it in their best interests to fight back, and it was entirely possible that some would actively attempt to undermine others, thinking to use the invasion to their best advantage.

Such shortsightedness would doom any effort to resist literally before it could get off the ground.

Laughter reached his audio sensors, and he turned to see a group of children running through the streets, their chores at home apparently finished. They were hitting a small ball that appeared to be made of wood and was painted a bright yellow. It bore a slight resemblance to the Earth game of hockey, but the sticks didn't have a paddled end, and he couldn't see any goals, or for that matter, any teams. They seemed to just be hitting it for the fun of it.

One of them, one of the larger children, gave the ball a hard hit, and sending it sailing through the air. The Chief's reflexes kicked in, calculating velocity, acceleration, direction of the ball, wind speed and direction. His arm blurred forward and the ball was captured by it.

Everyone stopped, and the laughter died in an instant. The Master Chief was bemused for a moment, and stared down at the object in his hand. It was well worn, sporting dents and a few faint cracks in a number of places. Some of the paint was also flecking off. Then he stared back at the children, who were pale-faced and shifting nervously.

He gently lobbed the ball towards them. The wooden sphere bounced a few times along the cobblestones, and rolled back into the group. Fear filled faces disappeared, and they went back to their game.

"Awww, such a way with children," Cortana said through his internal speakers.

The Spartan said nothing, but continued to follow behind Neeshka and the other guard. They soon passed through a large, fortified gate. The Spartan noted the incline that they were moving up, and nodded approvingly as he stared around at the walls and portcullises around him. This place had been designed with defense in mind. He could see a castle in the distance, and looked over its architecture.

It was, again, mid to late Gothic in appearances. The battlements were smooth and rounded to eliminate weak points, while the towers sported steep coverings to ward off damage from arrows and siege weaponry. Zooming in with his visor, he noted that the shingles on the room appeared to have been secured and reinforced by a number of steel bands. Clever engineering trick, and it again reinforced his theory that there were a large number of metal veins around this town, especially in light of the number of soldiers that had been seen wandering the streets.

The cyborg had also been pleased by those patrols. They were well disciplined, marching in perfect step, and their eyes were shifting about for trouble, especially staying focused on the alleys.

As another group passed them by, he also noted a solid distribution of weapons among them. The squad leaders typically carried large warhammers—a tactical anti-armor weapon. Two men behind them were carrying axes, weapons that he knew were hard to stop once the user got his momentum up. The remainder carried halberds, great for being able to harm an adversary before he could harm you.

They also wore a cloak, he noticed; a pattern of silver stars on a sky blue background. He had seen others in heavier gear every once and a while as well, and theirs held a single star surrounded by gold. Were the cloaks used to denote what branch of the military that these soldiers belonged to?

"The cloaks that the soldiers are wearing, what do they mean?" he asked Neeshka. The Tiefling looked at him for a second and then shook her head slightly.

"Sorry," she said, "that's pretty common knowledge around here, I forgot that you wouldn't know it." She smiled faintly, and pointed at the guard in front of them. "The light blue means they're part of the city watch. Three stars means the rank and file, four stands for a sergeant, and four with a silver border means that the individual's a captain."

"And the gold?" Orna spoke up. "What does that signify?"

"It means that the person's a knight." The Tiefling went silent for a moment, and the Spartan saw something, he wasn't certain exactly what, flicker across her face. Sorrow? Regret? It passed as quickly as it came. "Beyond that, you've got the Nine. You'll recognize them when you see them."

The girl was hiding something, the Master Chief was certain of that. Still, it wasn't his business to pry, not unless he suspected that it was something that would be detrimental to the safety of his fellow UNSC personnel.

The rest of the journey to Castle Never passed in relative silence.

* * *

Back at the sight of the battle, strange things were afoot. There was a slight swirling in the air, moving in a circular manner. It was nothing as violent as a tornado, more like a hay-devil, a small cyclone with winds that rarely exceeded twenty kilometers per hour. Suddenly, there was a flash, and a silvery-blue disk opened up out of nowhere. The object was standing on its thin side, and looked to be relatively two-dimensional. Out of it stepped a few, all of them shrouded in cloaks that hid their features. The lead one nervously gripped his twin blades and stared around. He squinted, and then motioned behind him.

Two more people stepped out. The first was a figure clad in black robes, with a series of blue runes sewn into the material. Behind him was someone who confirmed the identity of the party. One could immediately tell that this Drow was different from his fellows. Where they hid from the sun beneath their cloaks, he did not. He almost seemed to revel in the bright light.

A large, wide brimmed had adorned a head that was shaved bald. Its dark color was offset by an enormous white feather that curled backwards out of it. Numerous gemstones adored the vest he wore, and a number of rings and amulets hung around his neck. An eye patch covered his left eye, set with a large ruby in the center

His name was well whispered in the heart of Menzoberranzan: Jarlaxle. Aside from the archwizards of Scorcere, he was the only male Drow in the entire city who was seen as anything more than fodder for the Matrons' schemes. That was because he commanded Bregan De'Aerthe. The militant arm of his mercenary band rivaled the power of many of the leading houses, while his spy and information network was so well entrenched and integrated into their society that no one in the city so much as came down with a chest cold without him knowing about it.

But despite his power, there were some that even he could not ignore. Matron Baerne herself had requested… no, ordered him to come out here and find out what was going on. She had tried communing with Lolth, but had been unable to effectively contact her deity. It had made the old matron worried, and so he had been called in.

The Drow mercenary whistled as he looked around at the remnants of the Orc and Luskan camps. Bodies blown to pieces, ripped in half, missing limbs, and the whole place laid to ruin. He hadn't seen this much devastation since House Arlias had failed in its attempts to eliminate a higher ranking family, and the Abyss had been unleashed on it in retribution for its violation of Menzoberranzan's "laws."

"My, my," he said, rubbing his chin, "someone made quite a mess." He turned to face the first Drow that had come out of the portal. "Something tells me that if your sister was here, that she's no longer among the living."

"No information would please me more," the Dark Elf, Dinin Do'Urden, replied, spitting into the snow. "Briza always was an insufferable bitch."

Jarlaxle said nothing, but motioned for his soldiers to spread out. He himself went for the far side of the camp, to see what he could scrounge up. The carnage was almost surreal to him, and considering his society and upbringing, he considered that to be impressive. He trod over the frozen bits of meat that had once been humans and Orcs, noting for a moment that there was a man hanging from a cross at the far end of the camp.

He saw something else on the ground that puzzled him. He knelt down next to the stone, and frowned slightly. There were smooth, glassy pools about six inches deep in the center of it, as if flakes of dragon's fire had struck the stone and melted through it. Whatever had done this had been hot enough to burn through the rock effortlessly, and looking around, he could see where armor had fused, and people had been burned to the point that had he not know what race they were beforehand, he would have never guessed their identities.

He saw many corpses that bore marks of combat that he was familiar with, the slash marks of a sword or axe, or the crushed body parts of a hammer. There were, however, even more pieces to the puzzle here. Bodies had been blown completely apart, and blown apart with such ferocity that there didn't seem to be anything left of them larger than a fist.

Jarlaxle tapped a booted foot against the ground, wondering what could have caused it. Magic Missile? No, that spell didn't do _this_ to people. An Isaac's Missile Storm, or perhaps a blast of raw eldritch power? Were they dealing with a warlock here? If so, then he was one of unusual potency.

Then the mercenary's eyes fell upon something else. One of the northern passes that lead from this clearing was filled with Orc bodies. Dozens… hundreds, in fact. He arched an eyebrow at this, and made his way over to the field of slaughter. The devastation here was inconsistent with any type of spell that he knew of, and with a small army of wizards at his employ, that list was long and thorough.

The ones in the center had been reduced to smears of flesh and giblets, and those on the outer edges were ether burnt to a crisp or had been shredded in a similar manner to the ones in the center of the massacre. It was the ones in-between those two that puzzled Jarlaxle. Their bodies were missing limbs and some had been torn in half. Others… others had been, jellified, for lack of a better term.

The mercenary leader prodded one such corpse with his toe, marveling at how easily it sank into the depth of the Orc's body. He nudged it over, and watched as muscle seemed to flow and every part of its body deformed, almost like a slime monsters had bored inside and started to digest the poor fool from the inside out.

"Zetarin," he called out.

The wizard detached himself from the others and made his way over to his leader. He had his hood pulled down so low that it was a wonder he could even see where he was going.

"Sir?" the man asked, bowing slightly as he drew close.

"What do you make of it," Jarlaxle gestured around the whole camp. "What kind of magic are we dealing with here?"

"I'm honestly not sure, sir," Zetarin shook his head and held up his hands helplessly. "I've sensed and pried into the arcane, but I can only detect the faintest traces of it." He sighed. "My attunement could be off, there is something strange in the ley lines and currents these days, but I cannot sense anything trace of power on the level necessary to cause this kind of devastation."

There was something in his voice that puzzled his commander. "Something bothering you?" the mercenary asked.

"No sir… well, slightly." He shifted slightly, and Jarlaxle caught a glimpse of his compatriot's crimson eyes, the only thing visible in the depths of his cowl. "This just brings back bad memories."

Jarlaxle nodded sympathetically. With a few exceptions, his mercenary band was composed entirely of survivors from fallen houses. Males that were not given the right of accusation against the attacking house in the rare event that they were able to survive, elite soldiers who had managed to evade capture, and even a handful that had survived the retribution of failure.

Zeratin himself was from House Kerlias, though it was no longer acknowledged as such, or for that matter, neither had its history been. Failure meant more than death, it meant that you and all your family and past were effectively erased from the history of Menzoberranzan. You never existed in the first place.

"Well, I think that we've learned just about all that we can from here," Jarlaxle muttered. "Come, let's be on our way before we fry our brains in this light."

What Jarlaxle didn't know was that a mile above his head, a Frisbee sized object had recorded everything that had just happened with amazing detail and clarity.

Back on the _Forward Unto Dawn_ Cortana mused over their sudden arrival. Billions of outcomes, scenarios, and hypotheses zipped through her artificial mind and crystal matrices in the time that it would take a human to blink.

She decided against scrambling the Longsword to try and wipe them out. There wasn't a guarantee that she'd be able to get it there and take them out before they went back through their little portal, and she'd just overplay her hand. Instead, she downloaded the data, transferred it to another UAV, and launched it. The small object flew out, heading away from the frigate and towards the mountain caves where Bruenor lived.

Drizzt might know something about these individuals.

* * *

There, were, however, events occurring that even Cortana was not aware of. The Dawn's long range sensors had been shut down to conserve power, and to eliminate the possibility that anyone with an active sensor equivalent finding the ground ship. Had they been on, they might have spotted the object that was burning its way down through the atmosphere, almost a thousand kilometers away.

No one on Faerun would have recognized the thing, merely believed that it was another Spell Jammer. To someone from the UNSC, though, its sleek lines, predatory appearance, and purple-blue hull would have clearly marked it as a Covenant vessel.

It was a small craft, not much more than a hundred meters long. It was a scouting craft, designed with aggressive reconnaissance in mind, sporting a few pulse lasers and a plasma torpedo launcher, in addition to an impressive array of jamming and sensor systems.

At the moment, though, it was in trouble. It had departed through the portal less than twelve hours ago. Its mission: ascertain the fate of the Human vessel, _Forward Unto Dawn_ and if possible, rescue any survivors of the four soldiers that had stayed behind. Fleet Shipmaster, Rtas Vadumee, had made finding the Arbiter a top priority of the mission, as well as the Demon, Spartan-117.

Ship pilot Vlades Dursamee struggled with the unresponsive controls of the craft. Ever since they had entered that other portal floating above the Ark, things had gone south. A massive spacial anomaly had ensnared the craft, and shredded its shielding systems, while also knocking the weapons offline. What had followed had been a slow, eleven and a half hour limp towards a planet that seemed the most hospitable, while spamming distress signals and ship identification in every known frequency and trying to repair what they could.

Nothing had come of it though, and now the bare hull of his craft was being exposed to the raw heat of reentry. The few scanners that were still working had enabled him to find an ideal "soft spot" in the planets terrain to set the ship down in, though the busted engines were not making it an easy job for him.

And of course, when your ship was coming in at fifty times the speed of sound, the term "soft spot" was relative.

"Impact in ten seconds!" he shouted over the ship's communication system. "Everyone brace!"

He faintly heard affirmative feedback over his channels, ranging from the high pitched squeaks and yelps of Unggoy, the barking commands of his fellows, and the faint rumbling of the pair of Lek'golo on board.

The atmosphere rushed by their craft and ignited from the friction. Those ten seconds passed quickly, and through his holographic instruments, the Sangheili was able to see the ground approach and fill his field of view.

The scouting craft hit the ground and shook the earth with enough force that it would have leveled a small city. It bounced, sailing a kilometer or two through the air before it impacted again, this time staying down and skidding through the swamping terrain.

Copses of trees and small rises were obliterated as it slashed its way across the ground. Water boiled away behind it, leaving an immense steam trail almost a kilometer wide in its wake and burning swamp grass to ash. As his ship smashed through yet another rocky rise, reducing it to so much molten lava, Vlades was suddenly grateful for the fact that this ship, like all Covenant craft, had been built with the bridge in the exact center of it. He could hear stuff breaking loose in the troop hold, and hoped that too many wouldn't be injured by it.

After what felt like an eternity, the ship finally came to a stop. The Elite let out a sigh of relief, tapping his mandibles against the sides of his helmet.

"Status report!" his commander, Mias Tarkimee barked out.

"Ship at full stop. Significant damage to the hull plating along the bottom edge of the craft," Vlades said. He tapped a few more holographic buttons. "The weapons in the cargo hold broke loose, damage unknown. Reactor stable, but shield capacitors are damaged."

"Sound off, casualties!" his superior said, as Vlades busied himself with shutdown procedures.

The end results were better than could normally be expected. No fatalities, only a few serious injuries like broken bones among the Unggoy, and thanks to their shields, the Sangheili had survived with nothing more than a few bruises. It went without saying that the Lek'golo hadn't even had their armor scratched by the impacts and rough landing.

Within minutes of crashing down, Mias had his troops in line and organizing what they could onto their vehicles: two Specters and a pair of Shadow heavy ground transports. Things had been better than the commander had hoped for. All three hundred of his soldiers were alive, and most of their infantry and logistical equipment was salvageable. The portable fusion generators, plasma cell rechargers, combat rations, weapons, and also, methane synthesizer and portable habitats for the Unggoy were all intact.

He activated a holomap on his gauntlet, and looked at it. According to the scans they'd managed to snag before everything had gone to hell, there was a large city, around tier two technological level, about two hundred clicks to the southeast. With luck, even having to move on foot, they could make the distance in a week. Once there, he could have his Sangehili make supply runs back and forth until they had everything unloaded.

Time to get this show on the road. He looked around at his command staff. They were all in place, and there were only a few more orders to give.

"N'tho, Usze, take point," he said.

Both Sangheili saluted. They stood out from their comrades by virtue of their black armor and the two blocky protrusions that came off their backs. Both of them were Rangers, elite commando units trained to fight in every conceivable environment, up to and including the vacuum of space. With their heads completely covered by ferocious helmets that were patterned to resemble a Sangehili skull, they had lived up to their incarnation as angels of death in the face of the Brutes' treachery, and more importantly, on the Ark, where they had battled alongside the Spartan and the Arbiter.

Both of the soldiers unslung their newly issued weaponry—long-armed plasma rifles that bore more resemblance to human weapons, with protruding sensor scopes and iron sights—than the elegant, but somewhat poorly designed weapons that they'd been forced to use under the rule of the Prophets. Mias supposed that was one advantage to breaking away from the Covenant, in the event that his cybernetic targeting networks failed, he'd still be able to aim his gun. Both of them also carried a pistol at their sides, and a particle beam rifle over their backs.

"Lotar, Denos, cover our flanks." He signaled to the two Lek'golo.

"We obey…" they rumbled. A Hunter communicated by vibrating the many eel-like organisms that made up its collective body and mind. The result was a deep, baritone voice that was more felt through the bones than heard through the ears.

Like the Sangheili, the separatist Hunters had altered their armor to signify breaking away. It was now an iridescent black, with tinges of blue white scattered around it, and it was also more jagged than those of the loyalists. They did, however, still sport the enormous assault cannons that made them so dangerous. Stationed on the flanks of the formation, their incredibly attuned senses would make it almost impossible for an enemy to take them off guard, while the assault cannon's enormous firepower and range would ensure that anything that did try to attack them met with a quick, if painful, demise.

"Gazap, are your troops ready to move?"

"Yes, Excellency," the Unggoy replied with a salute.

Gazap was a hardened combat veteran that Mias had served with for some time, something evident in the Uggoy commander's pearly white armor and large build, though both were somewhat hidden by the massive fuel rod cannon that he carried. Some might think it comical that the four foot tall soldier was carrying a weapon bigger than he was, but any who knew the power that the device could bring to bear knew better than to laugh.

"Good, then move it out!"

It would serve the group well that they were alert. They had no way of knowing where they were, but they had crash landed in the dreaded Evermoores. The swamps and bogs were calm enough by day, but at night, this place would bring forth its own horrors.

* * *

&

* * *

Well, hope that wasn't too bad.

As a quick statement with regards to the scans: I've got the elites using a different type of tech tier than the one used by the Forerunner array, just to avoid confusion.

As always, many thanks for those who took the time to read this, and any form of feedback is appreciated. I do hope to one day do this sort of thing for a living, so I'll need all the help I can get to improve.

Until next time, though, folks, stay safe and have a great day.


	11. Chapter Ten: Hobnobbing

Hi again everyone. Sorry, I know its been a long time since I updated. Worry not, the work goes forward, at least, now that my Law School exams are over and done with… for better or for worse. Now I just have to pray that I did well enough not to flunk out. Those exams have a way of making you feel incredibly stupid, no matter how well prepared you are.

At any rate, I'm still pretty tired, as according to my calcs, I've missed a cumulative total of sleep over the past month equal to about 60+ hours of REM… which I'm certain is not healthy at all.

But enough of my problems. Without further delay, here's chapter ten. May it hopefully be good enough that you do not wish to sic rabid dogs upon me.

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**Chapter Ten- Hobnobbing**

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The Master Chief looked around at the castle before him and nodded appreciatively. Like everything else in Neverwinter, it seemed to have been designed with defense as the first priority, and pleasing aesthetics as the second. He could see the bowmen on the walls that had weapons trained on them, and the men-at-arms with their swords and shields.

One man at the castle gates did stand out however: he was clad in a strange kind of silvery plate, different from the rest in that it seemed to positively shine to the Chief. His face was difficult to see behind the helmet that he wore, which reminded the Spartan a lot of the helmets worn by his ancient namesakes. The tabard that he wore over the armor was a deep blue in color, with a black eye that seemed to be shedding three teardrops. These must have been one of the Neverwinter Nine that Neeshka had told them about.

The man carried a large, two handed blade over his back, and crossed his arms over his chest as the Spartan drew nearer. A slight buzzing went through the Master Chief's helmet as Cortana activated some of the scanners. She was looking at the armor, he noted.

"Interesting," she said. "The armor's not steel at all… well, not completely, at any rate."

"Meaning?" The Spartan inquired over a private com-line.

A screen appeared in the upper corner of his HUD, showing several molecular structures that were bonded together. The Chief's eyebrows shot upwards as he stared at them. He recognized steel, carbon, titanium, and boron all mixed together. An alloy like this would provide excellent protection and only weigh a fraction of the amount that a full steel suit would weigh. The question, of course, was how they would have gotten their hands on the equipment required to successfully mine and extract this kind of ore, let alone successfully smelt an alloy of its caliber with medieval equipment.

"Sir Neville," Neeshka said with a bow as she approached the man. He nodded curtly in response and then paused to scrutinize her armor very carefully, his gaze thoughtful and a little suspicious.

"We've been expecting you for some time, girl. You're running late on your mission." He frowned and the Chief saw his eyes wander over to him. "And who are these people?"

"The reason I'm a little late," the Tiefling said. Her voice was even, but the cyborg noticed her tail twitching. She was clearly displeased with the manner in which she'd been addressed, but was doing well to conceal it. "The fireball that came down up in the Dale was their craft."

"A Spell Jammer?" Neville cocked his head. "I see. Is this why you saw fit to bring a demon into town as well?" he glanced over at Orna, whose mandibles twitched and eyes narrowed.

"They've got him under control," she nodded towards Keyes, "but I've also learned that some very bad things are going to happen up here. Luskan's about to go on the warpath again, and they're not going to be alone this time."

The man stiffened instantly, his eyes narrowing. "Are you sure, Neeshka? We've only just gotten through with another war with them. Are you certain they have the strength to come at us again?"

"Ohh, most definitely," she nodded. "These offworlders want to help us, and they wanted to see Lord Nasher to discuss the possibility of an alliance."

"Well, they'll have a chance to speak with him, then. They'll have to wait their turn though," he said, and then he turned around and walked inside the castle.

Neeshka turned to face then, and seemed to sheepishly kick the ground at her feet. "Well, I think this is the best I could do. Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about," Johnson said with a shrug. "Let's go meet the man in charge."

"Agreed, lead the way, Neeshka," Keyes said.

The entrance to the castle was lined with murder holes, the Master Chief noted, and probably manned at this very moment. Further evidence of a militant, or at least, semi-militant society. He wondered what history had prompted them to become like this. Then he took note of the main entrance hall. It was wider, with columns evenly dispersed through it. People in brightly colored clothing, expensive gowns, and more than a little jewelry were standing around talking with each other. Based off their appearance, and their discussion of taxes, mercantile and agricultural profits, and the like, the Spartan deduced that these were probably nobility. He was a little surprised at the number of women present here at the moment, though. Not as many as the men, but a good dozen at least, and they seemed to not be very gender specific with their conversations, addressing men and the other women equally.

Evidence of a gender equal society? Or at least one that wasn't as patriarchal as Earth's had been during this time period.

There were also a number of guards clad in some manner of blackish armor. As with the silvery stuff that Neville wore, it seemed to be something other than steel. A brief scan by Cortana indicated it to be the truth. These ones had something in them that truly did surprise the cyborg: carbon nanofibers. They didn't appear to be aligned in a manner that would increase strength, as the early twenty first century armors would and the current issue marine gear, but the defensive and damage absorption capabilities would be incredible for this time period. He fought the urge to whistle.

The guards' grips on their weapons tightened as the group drew near, and as always, conversation came to an abrupt and grinding halt.

"Neeshka, a question," he asked quietly, so as not to draw too much attention to himself. "Do the nobles here have any sort of dress code? How do you tell who is what social rank?"

"Ah, sorry, should have warned you about that," she scratched the back of her head, and her tail wrapped around her left leg. "Dukes and duchesses usually wear purple, trying to flaunt that they can afford the color of the dye, which, rest assured, is worth its weight in gold."

The Spartan discreetly looked around, and noted only two of such individuals, both male, and both speaking to one another in a cheerful tone that indicated either a close relationship or alliance, or, based on the nearness of appearance, blood ties.

"The Marquises and Earls tend to wear gold, and usually have enough jewelry on them to set a metalsmith for life. Then come the Barons—the people in red." She subtly pointed to each in turn, and the Chief nodded.

Information was power, and irritating the local rulers would not be helpful. He simply hoped they could pick up on the protocol around here.

It took them a few minutes to pass through the hall, and then they reached a guard point. Some of the soldiers in the black armor held up a hand.

"All weapons and dangerous implements must be left here," he said. "The agent may pass, but the rest of you…" he trailed off.

The group exchanged a glance as Neeshka moved into the next area, probably to announce their arrival. Then there was a collective shrug, and they moved over to the table next to them. The Spartan took notice of a few swords, mostly rapiers and a few broadswords, and then he started unloading.

First came the battle rifle. He took it off his back, clicked the safety on, ejected the magazine and then opened the chamber. The ten millimeter round sprang out, but he caught it with ease, slipping it back into the mag. Then he turned it to where the guard could see the empty chamber, and set it down. This was followed by the spare magazines that he was carrying, carefully stacking them on top of each other.

His shotgun was next. He emptied the loading tube, and popped the eight-gauge shell out of the chamber. The twelve shells were lined up in two rows of six, and then he took out the two boxes of ammo that he was carrying. Then came his knife, followed by the bandolier of grenades that he was carrying, three plasma, three frags, a napalm, and one Brute grenade that Keyes had wanted him to take along to show to Lord Nasher. The massive device bore more resemblance to a spiked club than a fragmentary device, and he made doubly certain that it was deactivated before he set it down with the spikes pointing out at an offset angle.

A second knife, balanced for throwing, followed this.

The others did the same, Johnson offloading an SMG and his O2, drawing more than a few stares from the guards gaped openly at the 14.5x114 SABOT rounds sticking out of the top of the magazine, followed by his own grenades and knives.

Orna and Keyes were also busy, unloading a variety of assault rifles, knives, plasma swords, and other equipment.

When they were doing this, Neeshka returned, and the Master Chief noted that she had another man with her, an old fellow, probably about his age, but still looking physically capable for the most part. He was wearing a captain's cloak, and there was a pendant around his neck, one of a shield with a few spiraling patterns on it.

"Ummm, guys?" The Tiefling scratched at the side of her head. "Lord Nasher's ready to see you regarding the information on Luskan, he bumped a few people back in line for you…"

"Still unloading," Johnson said, placing a sniper round back in the enormous magazine, followed by him reluctantly removing his cigar casings.

Orna unslung the backpack powercell for the plasma cannon that he was carrying, spreading out the weapon's tripod and to set it up properly and then disconnecting it from the power source. He trusted that these guards would be smart enough to keep their hands off, but his long time spent battling humans had taught him one thing: they were curious creatures. Sometimes too curious for their own good.

Neeshka and the others just continued to stare at the ever growing mound of rifles, pistols, and other assortments of destruction.

It ended with Johnson and Keyes placing the two cases up on the table, opening them to reveal a Spartan laser and a Jackhammer rocket launcher. The guards present took an uneasy step away from the devices, and stared at each other nervously.

"Is that everything?" the old man that Neeshka was with asked, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"I think so," Keyes said, looking back at the table. It was hard to distinguish the wood paneling of the table beneath all the UNSC and Covenant weaponry that covered it.

"What's that?" one asked, pointing to a little triangular piece of equipment that was hanging off of Johnson's waist.

"E-tool," the ODST muttered, opening it up and showing the man the little fold up shovel.

"A shovel?" the guard's tone was incredulous.

"Don't insult it, the little baby's saved my life quite a few times. Never know when you're going to need to dig a foxhole." Johnson gave the entrenchment tool a loving pat.

The guards simply looked at the Helljumper like he was crazy, and waved him on.

"What's the procedure from here?" Keyes asked.

"Well, Nasher's never really been one much for formalities. Simply respect his position, always call him Lord Nasher, milord, or Sir, and don't openly insult the city, and you should be fine." Neeshka said, smiling at them.

"Here goes nothing," Johnson remarked, staring up at the ceiling for moment.

The Master Chief nodded, and fell into line. Neeshka went first, leading them up into the throne room, then Commander Keyes. Johnson stood slightly behind her, while he and Orna brought up the rear.

There were a large number of nobles of all stations, as well as more of the guards and a few nights in the room. Several of the Nine were present as well, flanking Nasher's throne. Conversations went silent as they entered.

Lord Nasher himself was a very imposing individual. He looked to stand about six foot two, and was clad in some kind of ceremonial plate armor that was an off-white color. A small, neatly trimmed beard circled his mouth and chin, and his eyes spoke of a great amount of experience and wisdom. The Master Chief also noticed that the man had a longsword within arms reach of his seat. A very smart move, the Spartan thought to himself.

"Lord Nasher, may I present to you, Commander Miranda Keyes of the UNSC," Neeshka said with a bow.

"My Lord," Keyes removed her helmet and bowed, while the Chief and Johnson assumed parade rest positions, and Orna brought his left arm across his chest, and spread his mandibles.

"Arise, Commander." Nasher's voice was deep and even, and very calm despite Orna's presence in his court. "Neeshka tells me that you're not from around here…"

"You might say that, Lord Nasher," Keyes said as she stood back up. "My… companions and I were engaged in a top priority mission for the UNSC when our ship was damaged and sucked through a portal. The next thing we knew, we were here. It's been… difficult to adjust to."

"Yes, Neeshka made a brief mention that you were war veterans," he nodded. "I'll come to that later, but you will forgive me if I am slightly more concerned about this new Luskan threat…" he trailed off.

"Completely understandable, My Lord," Keyes nodded her head and then looked behind her. "Master Chief?"

The Spartan walked towards the large map at the far side of the room, noting how some nobles hastily moved out of his way, while other seemed to press closer, as if they were more curious than afraid. The cyborg gestured up to the region around the Ten Towns, roughly where the Luskan and Orc forces had raided the Plainsmen camp.

"Two days ago, we engaged in a series of hostile actions against Luskan and Orc forces. The first took place at zero-nine-twenty-seven hours, and the second at sixteen-forty-five." He paused for a moment, and let his words sink in. "Casualties varied, and we feel that we were able to get a good assessment of the enemy's force projection capabilities, as well as their combat tactics and discipline."

He paused again, and then turned to face the map.

"Enemy forces were first engaged at this location, among the village of the Elk Tribe Plainsmen. Hostile units consisted of Orc soldiers intermixed with Luskan forces. Initial sensor contact came at zero-nine-fifteen hours by a UAV reconnaissance drone." He pointed back to where Bryn Shander was located. "We scrambled to intercept, and made ingress via Pelican gunship. Hard contact with enemy forces initiated at zero-nine-twenty-seven hours. They had inflicted a number of casualties on the Plainsmen, and taken a large number of civilians prisoner."

As he spoke, Johnson stepped forward, and took out a small holo projector. It was set on the floor, and then activated. What followed was about fifteen seconds from the UAV's battle camera, focusing on Johnson and Keyes as they sped along the perimeter of the camp. Nasher and the others watched as the Helljumper reloaded the fifty caliber machinegun on the back of the Warthog, and then chambered a round.

"Okay, we just slapped a new ammo drum onto the fifty, so we're good for a while. We're going to keep moving around the perimeter, see if we can't spook some of them out of hiding and out into the open. Push comes to shove, we can always run them over."

Just a few seconds after Johnson spoke a group of Orcs broke cover and dashed away from the village.

"Target spotted, going hot!" he shouted, and then depressed the firing studs.

The massive weapon began to roar and the seven Orcs in front of it were disintegrated before the onslaught. There were gasps and he noticed that a few of the nobles turned an interesting shade of pale green. He heard one person whistle, and saw that mixed in among the crowd was a Dwarf, clad in just a simple, white and red robe. He crossed his arms across his burly chest and stared at the image before him with appreciation, and if the Chief didn't know any better, a little bit of eagerness.

The image switched focused over to him and Orna for a few brief moments, giving them a few seconds to understand what he and the Arbiter were capable of.

"At zero-nine-forty hours the enemy had been routed, but they escaped with a significant number of prisoners. We attempted to gather intelligence, and discovered the leader of the assault force." At his words, Cortana changed everything over to his helmet camera, and they witnessed the confrontation between him and Briza.

There was an almost universal recoil as the Drow's image was revealed, and the Spartan raised an eyebrow. Neeshka had mentioned that the Dark Elves had something of a reputation, but he never figured that they would be able to induce fear simply by their appearance. Interesting, he thought, and a powerful psychological weapon if utilized correctly. Perhaps this was what prompted Luskan to side with the Drow?

The clip ended with Briza's execution, which, John noticed, got a nod of approval from Lord Nasher and the strange Dwarf. He could also hear whispers between Neeshka and the older soldier they'd seen her with earlier. He caught the name "Casavir" and logged it away.

"A UAV drone was dispatched to scout out the enemy camp, and a battle plan was drawn up," the Spartan continued, circling the area just outside of the pass that led to the camp. "After medical attention had been provided to the wounded, the remaining Plainsmen forces, and a small detachment sent from Bryn Shander rendezvoused at this location at sixteen-thirty hours." He tapped his armored fingers against the spot. "Once the sun had set at sixteen-forty, myself and Sergeant Major Johnson proceeded up the pass and moved to eliminate enemy scouting patrols. The first patrol was encountered and eliminated at sixteen-forty-five."

As before, there were a few brief images from Johnson's battle camera, showing him and the Master Chief in action as they moved up the path.

"Once we'd secured the pass, the main assault force moved to occupy it. The sergeant and myself moved up to a sniping position, while a second scout force, consisting of Agent Neeshka and Ten Towns ranger, Drizzt Do'Urden, searched the camp for the Luskan commander. This occurred at sixteen-fifty-five. At sixteen-fifty-eight, we initiated hard contact."

The screen switched to that night, showing sniper rounds vaporizing targets, phosphoric grenades detonating with their hellish payload, and a brief glimpse of Cortana's valkryie missile strike.

"By seventeen-zero-three, the assault force had engaged the enemy, and the second scouting team had retrieved the Luskan commander." The Spartan turned and faced Lord Nasher, clasping his hands behind his back and spreading his feet slightly. "Sergeant Major Johnson and I continued to provide sniper and grenadier support until seventeen-zero-eight, when we moved down for direct infantry support. By seventeen-twelve, the enemy forces had broken and were dispatched by the Pelicans. An interrogation with the commanding officer followed."

The scene switched to show the Luskan commander dangling off his feet, with John's iron hard voice barking out question after question.

"We don't feel that we can analyze the data and come to a conclusion as precise as you might, considering we've never had a combat encounter with the Drow. We were hoping this information might prove useful to you and aid in any defensive or counteroffensive operations that you undertake," Commander Keyes said.

After that, the briefing came to an end, and the cyborg moved back over behind his commander, reassuming parade rest.

Nasher appeared to be deep in thought. His eyes were closed and his fingers were drumming slowly against each other. After about thirty seconds, he reopened his eyes, and looked at all of them.

"Commander… all of you, have my thanks for this information, and I feel that I am in your debt for both conveying it, and for helping to protect Neeshka," he looked over at her with a wry frown on his face. "When I can keep her fingers out of the royal treasury, she's quite valuable to us, and we are grateful for her services."

The group said nothing, and merely bowed. Nasher leaned forward slightly and smiled at them. "I will send a message to the Lord's Alliance, and inform them of this coming threat. Rest assured, that when the action is made to take back Mithril Hall, that Neverwinter shall stand beside our old allies of Clan Battlehammer."

"Yessss," the strange Dwarf growled, and smiled fiendishly. Was he a part of the clan? The Master Chief couldn't help but wonder.

Then the hairs on the back of his neck started to stiffen. There seemed to be a tingle running down his spine, and he tensed, staring around at the crowd. Was there some assassin hiding amongst these ranks? Something was setting of danger alarms in his mind. He brought up an EM scanner inside of his HUD monitor, and his eyes widened. There was a spike in the frequency levels, and it was growing. He also went for his rifle, before remembering that he didn't have it.

"Commander," he began.

He was cut off by a series of flashes of light on the far side of the throne room, followed by the sound of some strange high pitched noise that reminded him eerily of a general quarters alarm. He reacted instantly, leaping to one side. A hail of crossbow bolts erupted, hitting guards and nobles without discrimination. In the case of the former, their strange armor protected most of them. Then same could not be said of the nobles. Fur and linen rarely made good protection against impacting penetrators. At the same time, a large portcullis slammed down in the throne room, cutting it off from the hallway.

The Chief felt his adrenaline kick in, felt Spartan Time take over. He took stock of the situation as everything slowed to a crawl. Lord Nasher had hurled himself over the side of his throne the instant the flashes had appeared, and the heavy oaken seat had stopped him from being harmed. His sword was in his hands, drawn, and ready for use. His guards were already maneuvering to surround him, Neeshka and Casavir included.

There appeared to be close to forty attackers, some already spreading out for a better shot at the leader of Neverwinter, while others drew melee weapons and began to charge. Most of those headed towards the entrance, intent of cutting off the guards from reaching their leader. The Spartan balled up his fists and shifted into a stance. Hand to hand combat training had been one of the most basic things drilled into them, starting with the very day that his training had begun. Chief Mendez however, had discouraged the concept of "styles," preferring instead that his Spartans remain on their toes at all times and keep thinking freely, rather than restricting themselves in the mannerisms that styles often imposed.

The end result was that all seventy five of them had learned how to cherry pick the best out of what the styles of the ancient world had to offer and blend them together into a seamless series of strikes and maneuvers that could be changed at a moment's notice. Muay Thai mixed with Taekwondo, Akido with Ju-Jitsu. It had served him well in the times where he'd been forced to tangle with Elites or Brutes.

The first man came at him, screaming with an arming sword drawn back over his head to try and cleave it into the Spartan's chest. The Master Chief blurred to one side, noting the confusion that suddenly registered on the man's face. The Spartan reached out and grabbed his foe's left arm. He shifted, using the man's own momentum to flip him head over heels. John applied force of his own as the man came down, and he smashed the man into the ground with enough force that he could hear and feel the spine shatter.

His motion sensor alerted him to another contact, and the Cyborg whirled around, grabbing a descending warhammer in mid-strike, wrapping his hand around his opponents, and squeezing hard. Knuckles and finger bones turned to dust under his power, and he knife handed the man.

Clad in the Mjolnir Mark VI armor, a Spartan was strong enough to lift more than four thousand kilograms over his head and hold it there. Compared to strength like that, the average human was little more than a glorified water balloon. The strike tore through the man's leather and metal armor, and shattered his rib cage. The Master Chief didn't stop though. Their earlier encounter with the Luskans had indicated that psychological warfare could be used to great effect against these people, and this was a perfect opportunity to put it into action. He spread his fingers out, shredding muscles and tendons before he found his prize.

The cyborg's hand burst from his foe's back and clutched within it was the man's heart. Blood dripped out of the torn arteries and veins as it tried futilely to preserve the life of the person it had been inside of just moments ago, and the Master Chief tossed it at the nearest man. It smacked into his face, blinding him momentarily. The Spartan blurred forward and lashed out with a right cross at the nearest would-be assassin. The powerful strike tore the man's head from his shoulders.

He saw a moment of fear flutter through the eyes of his opponents, and then he was upon them.

Sergeant Johnson muttered under his breath about having to leave his weapons behind in order to get in here, and now being cut off from them. ODST training kicked in, and he went for the nearest available substitute: his E-tool. He ripped it out from its compartment, and extended the device, but left the shovelhead bent at a ninety degree angle.

The first sword wielder was on him a moment later. The man paused to sneer at the impromptu weapon. Then Johnson struck, bringing the E-tool down at an angle. The man moved to parry it was a look of contempt on his face. What he underestimated was the strength behind the blow and the material from which the shovel was made. The two weapons locked up, and Johnson was able to force the blade down to one side, and brought his kneecap up into the man's abdomen. ODSTs were also no stranger to martial arts, and the knee smash, powered by muscles that had spent decades on battlefields hauling heavy equipment and enhanced by the nanofibers of his armor, impacted with the force of a speeding automobile. His assailant's face twisted into a mask of pain, but no sound emerged. Johnson could feel the muscles shredding and tearing under the force of his blow, but gave no respite.

His left fist went right into the man's face. He struck palm first, with it upturned just slightly. It hit the nose, and the transferred force smashed in the front of the brain cavity. Death was almost instant, and the man dropped without a sound.

The Helljumper twisted out of the way of another attack. The man over extended himself, and while he was recovering, Johnson swung. The E-tool bit into the man's head and cleaved it open like a gourd.

He used the shovel to deflect the next assault as well, before driving his kneecap up into the man's groin. Johnson took satisfaction in the feeling of the soft tissue and organs crushing beneath the force of the blow. As the man recoiled in pain the ODST reached out and grabbed him around the neck, just underneath the jaw. There was a loud snap and he saw the light die in the man's eyes.

"Come on! Who's next?" the Sergeant snarled, his eyes narrowed behind his helmet.

Off to his left, he saw two of them rush the Commander, he bolted to assist her, but his superior had things well in hand. Miranda Keyes blocked an axe with the forearm bracer of her armor, before she shifted and grabbed the man's wrist. She twisted her grip, and a moment later he let out a scream as his shoulder was forcibly dislocated. Keyes finished by spinning the man around and using him as a human shield against his comrade. The second man's blade slid into his ally's gut, and both wore looks of shock. That was all that Keyes needed.

She ducked down, and swept the man's legs out form underneath him. The UNSC Commander followed through by leaping up to her feet, and then smashing her foot down on the man's throat, crushing his windpipe and severing his spinal cord.

At the other end of the throne room, Neeshka had managed to get up to Lord Nasher, and was busy trying to help his guards. The Tiefling moved silently, despite the chaos, and the first two to die were never even aware of her presence, save for the slight bit of pain their necks as her blades bit into them.

She heard a deep throated roar and turned just in time to see one attacker get bowled over by a four foot tall bundle of robes and rage. There were a few sickening cracks, and then the man went limp.

"Hello, Goat Girl," Khelgar the Dwarf said with a grin as he jumped back up, kicking a man in the shin and crushing the leg bones as he did so.

"Nice to see you too, ale-breath," she muttered, twisting out of the way of a strike while parrying another, sticking her tail down and using it to trip one of the men up. She was forced to roll out of the way of an attack before she could finish him, though.

"Hey, you know I've stopped drinking!" He roared playfully, as if blissfully unaware of the fact that he was fighting for his life, while a the same time smashing a man in the side of the leg and making it twist in a manner it was never meant to.

Neeshka growled, flipping back up to her feet, and parried the next thrust, sending her shorter blade down its length and locking them both up at the hilt. She stared into the man's eyes, hate filling them, and she regretted that she wasn't wearing the helmet to the suit right now. Otherwise, she could have head-butted him with impunity.

She saw another two come in at her, but she couldn't block their strikes. She twisted as best she could, but the swords connected with the side of her shoulder and the bracer on her arm…

And bounced back off the strange plate without leaving so much as a scratch. Curiously, she hadn't even felt much of the impact, which should have left her arm throbbing regardless. Both men were off balance, though, and she was unharmed, so she wasn't about to complain. Neeshka exploded into action, wrapping her tail around one man's wrists and yanking them to the side, while diving forward with both swords. The first one she drove into one man's heart, twisting the blade before yanking it out. At the same time, her short sword was stabbed into the other's abdomen, and she ripped it across, tearing out his guts and leaving them to pool on the floor.

Then a green blur dashed past her. It was the Master Chief, and right behind him was the Arbiter. The formers arms were covered in blood all the way back to the elbows, while the latter carried a pair of stained arming swords that looked more like children's toys in his massive hands.

The Spartan hit the remaining attackers while Orna went for the men carrying crossbows and the mage that had teleported them in. Neeshka noticed that the man wasn't casting any spells, and she found that odd. Still, she didn't question good fortune when she could get it.

The crossbow carriers stared at the demon that was charging them, and fired their weapons at him, all thoughts of Nasher forgotten. Their fear multiplied many times over as the steel tipped shafts stopped short of their target, and crackling will-o-the-wisps formed over the Arbiter's body.

"Die where you stand, cowards!" he roared, spreading his mandibles wide and blurring in towards them.

They dropped their crossbows, and drew short swords. The blades would not avail them, though. The first man attempted to deflect a powerful chop that Orna lashed out with. The Sangheili's strength, which enabled him to go toe to toe against a Spartan, drove the blade down, and to the man's horror, kept coming at him. The Arbiter cleaved the Human's head in two almost effortlessly. Then he twisted and planted a booted foot deep into the guts of another, breaking his body and hurtling him into the wall of the chamber.

The third died with a blade in his guts, and the forth was cut in half at the waist. The last man dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, his hands clasped in a gesture of mercy. Orna contemplated his next actions for a second, and then thumped the man upside his head with the flat of the longsword. He might know something after all, and it would be useful to figure out exactly who and what was going on here.

The Arbiter turned his attention towards the man who was responsible for bringing the assassins here, but he found that there was little he could do about him. He caught a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye, and upon turning to face it, saw the Master Chief. The Spartan had grabbed a spear from a dead guard and was in the process of hurling it like a javelin. It hit one of the sword carrying assassins, tearing completely through and leaving the man with a fist sized hole in his chest and spine.

The missile kept flying, and too late, the mage seemed to notice his peril. He attempted to dive out of the way of the spear, but wasn't fast enough. The spearhead pierced his body picked him up, and pinned him to the wall, with the shaft quivering back and forth as it embedded itself in the stone.

There weren't many hostiles left, now, maybe six or seven. And they had already been herded away from Lord Nasher.

"Surrender, dogs!" Sir Neville called out, brandishing his weapon, while several other soldiers also did.

The would-be assassins looked about warily, seeking escape. The mage was dead, they were surrounded, and slowly moving to flank them were the two enormous demons that had killed so many of their ranks.

One by one, they started to lower their weapons to the floor and back away with their hands in the air.

The Master Chief started scanning around, looking for casualties. He noticed about five guards down, and two or three nobles that had been killed in the crossbow volleys. Lord Nasher himself appeared to be unharmed, if more then a little irate over this attempt on his life.

"Get the Cloak-Tower mages in here, now! I want to find out how they bypassed the wards!" he barked. A moment later, the portcullis that had cut the throne room off opened up, and more guards poured in. The captive assassins were quickly subdued, and hauled out of the room.

The Spartan looked around and took a moment to slide the blood off of his shields and down onto the floor. Stone could be cleaned, and he didn't think it a good idea to appear before the lord of the realm with bloodied arms. People were likely to think him demonic enough without that adding to his appearance.

Lord Nasher appeared to be relatively calm, all things considered, and the Spartan wondered how many times attempts on his life had been made. He stared around at the room one more time, before looking over towards Nasher.

"Do the gates of this place always seal you in with your attackers?" he asked.

Sir Neville seemed to bristle for a moment, and the Spartan realized he'd forgotten to address Lord Nasher by his title. He'd have to be doubly careful not to do so in the future.

"No…" Nasher said with a shake of his head. "It's almost as if the wards of my castle are… malfunctioning." He frowned. "The Many Starred Cloaks have informed me of unusual fluctuations in the Weave of late. They should be informed of this as well," he said, rubbing his chin as he looked around. Then he headed over towards the body of the mage that had been killed

His guards surrounded him as he went to look at the corpse, pilfering through the robes as if looking for something. Eventually, he pulled away with a small amulet held in his hand.

The Master Chief took note of the small bauble. It was pewter, and covered in a number of strange designs and runes. Nasher's face twisted into a hate filled scowl, and he held it up high to show it to everyone.

"The Hosttower," he heard Neeshka growl, her tail lashing about.

John's eyes narrowed behind his visor. Luskan again. Clever maneuver, he thought. Decapitate the chain of command. A flaw in these ancient feudal societies was that there was often not a clear line of succession if the current ruler didn't have a son or an adopted heir. This often led to infighting, even civil war, over who was going to be next in line. But he was certain that Neverwinter could not be alone. There would be other targets, likely as not.

"Are there any other cities or nations that Luskan would hold a grudge against?" The Spartan asked Neeshka, crossing his arms over his chest.

"A number of them, why?" She looked at him for a moment, and then her crimson eyes widened. She spat out a word that he didn't understand, possibly Infernal, because it didn't sound anything like the languages he'd heard down here yet.

She hastened off to inform Lord Nasher of the possibility of other assassination attempts, while the Master Chief headed back over to Commander Keyes. Johnson was there as well. He'd grabbed a rag of clothing from one of the dead men, and was in the process of cleaning his E-Tool. Orna seemed busy inspecting the swords he'd taken, curious about the workmanship.

"Well, I guess we're going to put off a display of our weapons until a slightly later date," Sergeant Johnson mused.

* * *

N'Tho stared around at the growing darkness, his combat visor automatically adjusting for the low light. The Sangheili growled and looked over to his partner.

"Usze, brother, do you feel it?" he asked, keeping himself off the command line.

The other Ranger, some twenty meters away from his companion slowly moved forward, his plasma rifle held against his shoulder. The new stocks certainly aided greatly in aiming and comfort, but that was the last thing on the soldier's mind at the moment. He could feel it as well. Decades of combat had honed his instincts well.

"Indeed. The very air around us seems repressive. And there is a smell on the wind. It is as if we battle the Parasite all over again," he said.

"I hope not," N'tho shook his head as he stared around. "Our present location excepted, this place seemed to be quite… beautiful. Much like Sangehilios. It would be a tragedy to have to burn it."

"Amen to that, brother. But such longings are ill suited," the other Ranger said. "Lotar, Denos, can you see or sense anything?"

"Negative, Rangers," Lotar responded in its deep voice. "Nothing appears on any of the spectrums, and even though this is less swampy than the crash site, we still can sense no movement. At least, not any that is of any use."

"I want everyone's eyes sharp and at the ready. I feel as though battle will be upon us soon," Mias spoke.

The Sangheili commander had no idea just how right he was.

* * *

&

* * *

Well, there you are. Sorry again folks for the lack of updating. The next one shouldn't take near as long to get ready. I hope this one was okay, though.

As always, feed back of any form is welcome, especially constructive criticism, but flames will do quite nicely. I'll be heading up to Massachusetts to see my relatives soon enough, and I'll need all the warmth that I can get.

Stay safe, people, and I once again go to bed, sleep calls to me like brains to a zombie.


	12. Chapter Eleven: Hobnobbing Some More

Hello again, everyone. Sorry about the delays, been spending time with my family up in Massachusetts, and my oh my the weather we went through.

I want to take the time to thank you all once again for your patience, and for taking the time to read the story. I hope that this is one that is worth the wait, but I'm a little nervous about it.

I hope that I was able to answer any questions that those who asked may have had, and if I've confused anyone, let me know, and I'll try and sort it out. Those of you who left anonymous reviews, I regret to announce that I am apparently not allowed to directly address you on this page for reasons I do not fully understand. If you leave an e-mail address that I can reach you at, I will happily respond to your review to the best of my abilities.

Also, as a minor note, at a friend's request, I am putting together a 'soundtrack' of sorts for the story, based off of music that has inspired certain parts of the writings. It goes without saying that the classical Halo tunes (The main theme, Follow our Brothers, Return of Leonidas, etc) are there, but there are others as well, and I will be putting one tune at the beginning of each chapter. This one is another great video game tune, Heroic Assault from Gears of War II (this can be found on youtube).

Enough rambling, though. Here's the chapter, and here's to hoping it is not a train wreck.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Hobnobbing Some More.**

* * *

The Master Chief paced back and forth in the small room, the heavily padded soles of his armored boots quieting his footfalls as his fellow servicemen and Orna slept. The room was a barracks styled guest room, about thirty feet long and half as wide with several rows of bunks making up the interior. The only source of light was a small, wooden chandelier hanging in the center, the candles of which had long since burned out.

Still, the cyborg had no difficulty in watching where he was going. His augmentations had made his eyes much more effective in low and no light conditions, and he could clearly see the outlines of the others. The clock on his HUD was also helpful, telling him that on local time it was just prior to six o'clock, pre dawn in this time of the year.

The Spartan was restless, agitated underneath his armor shell. There was something in the air, something that was warning him of things to come and battles that would be fought. It was the feeling he got right before he was loaded into a drop pod and shot out of a cruiser to take the battle to the Covenant. He almost wanted to chalk it up to yesterday's attack on Lord Nasher, but he knew that it was something more than that. There was something greater at work here.

Warnings had been sent out to other communities following the attempt on Nasher's life, only to learn that the other attacks had all been carried out simultaneously. From the Moonshae Islands to Waterdeep and Mirabar, assassins had sprung in and made attempts on the lives of the ruling councils and monarchs. The results had been mixed, but he knew that at least two of Waterdeep's councilmen were dead, and Moonshae's high queen had not survived. The scope of the attacks worried the Master Chief. Luskan had in a sense declared war on a number of city states, whose combined armies were more than capable of smashing them.

He had been a soldier for far too long to chalk it up to lunacy and madness. The Luskans had a card up their sleeve. The question was what was that card? The gears of his mind whirled in an attempt to figure it out. Hidden alliances? Pact with demons? Some combination of that, or perhaps even an option that he hadn't even considered.

He twisted suddenly, breaking his stride and heading for the door. He needed to get out and observe the world, do something to take his mind off this calm before the storm.

Peace was not his element, calmness and serenity not his natural environment. He felt out of place within these stone walls.

His suit had registered about six guards outside the door, and taking a look outside, he saw that was indeed the case. He nodded towards them, but got no response aside from a glance in his direction. Total dedication to their duty–a good sign, he felt. These soldiers had been trained well.

As he entered the corridor and gently closed the oaken door behind him he took a brief moment to remember the path that he and the others had traced on their way here. Nodding to himself, the Master Chief turned to his left and began to walk down the hallway. His motion sensors detected two guards moving in behind him, following him. So they didn't fully trust him yet. That was good.

After all, it was the same procedure that the UNSC would have followed. Looking at it from the native perspective, it was entirely possible that the previous attempt on Nasher's life was a feint, designed to lure the solders of Neverwinter into a false sense of security. Plus, they had seen him and the others in action, and knew that even without their weapons, they were still serious threats. In all honesty, the Spartan would have been more worried if he wasn't being followed.

It took him a few minutes at a brisk walking pace to move out of the maze of corridors that composed the castle and back to the main entrance way. There were still a couple of guards manning the weapons table, and he took the time to grab a battle rifle and a shotgun, along with a standard supply of ammunition and his supply belt. As he was loading the weapons, he noted the look in the eyes of the two men in front of him. Both of them seemed to be looking him over in a combination of awe and a careful analysis. He was once more impressed by what these people had put into their soldiers.

It was still dark outside when the Spartan stepped out of the main gate. The soldiers were still following him, hanging about fifteen meters behind him at all times. Their trailing procedures needed a little work, but it was perhaps possible that they were not trying to be stealthy—an overt presence to remind him that Neverwinter's eyes were still upon him. He made a mental note to inform Commander Keyes about it when she awoke.

Despite the early hour it was evident that there were people who were hard at work in the city. The Castle and its grounds were the highest point in the city, and gave a commanding view of the place. From where he was standing, the Spartan calculated that the city was approximately ten square kilometers in size, and judging by the density he had observed on the way in, home to perhaps some twenty thousand people. He found it to be very impressive, considering the era and the climate of this region. Though it was milder than Ten Towns, it wasn't by much, and his temperature gauge was giving him a reading of about negative four degrees, made slightly colder by a five kilometer per hour wind that was blowing in from the northeast.

Zooming in with his binoculars, the Spartan could make out merchants setting up their stands, with many of them carrying small metal containers that, judging by the smoke rising up out of them, probably were to help keep warm.

What was curious, however, was the large building about five hundred feet to his right. Next to the castle, it was the largest structure in the city, and home to the city's arcane academy. It was strangely quiet, almost deserted save for one person moving around the grounds, tending to the various animals that were caged there.

He found that rather odd. Everything that he'd learned about magic indicated that one needed constant study to hone the mind to the point where it could control the arcane forces and bend them to one's will.

"Early to bed, early to rise", as Benjamin Franklin had said.

It was a philosophy that Chief Mendez had subscribed to as well, and the Spartan could vividly remember the shock sticks used to get him and the others out of bed when they felt like sleeping in.

He paused in his observations for a moment, wondering what had ever happened to the man. Mendez was a harsh trainer, brutal in his doctrine, ruthless with punishments and demerits. To an outsider, he may have seemed a monster.

But John knew the truth. He knew the reasons for the CPO's actions, and the ends certainly justified the means. Without that training, he, his brothers, and his sisters would have never survived as long as they had against the Covenant juggernaut. You had to be hard to survive on a battlefield, had to be as ruthless as the enemy and then some.

There had been another side to the man as well, one that though he did his best to hide, his Spartans had seen anyway. He could remember the pride filled on Mendez's face when the first lesson on teamwork had sunk in, the crooked grin when they'd managed to successfully complete an infiltration mission. And he remembered the unshed tears that he'd tried to hide when half of the group hadn't survived their augmentations.

As his thoughts drifted through the past, he remembered something, and reached down into his supply belt. He fumbled around inside of one of the pockets, searching for one specific object as he thought about the closest thing he had to a father. Mendez was supposed to have been shipped off to train other Spartan candidates, but he'd never heard of them or seen any hair to hint at their existence. That had been nearly thirty-five years ago, and there'd been no sign of Mendez since then. Not a hair of a reassignment notice on his Combat Service Vitae, or any reports of MIA/KIA. He'd just dropped off the grid.

He pulled out a small object from inside the pocket, and held it carefully in his hand. It was a small, silvery disk, only a few millimeters thick. One side held a profile shot of a long dead man, his hair tied back in a ponytail, and a date on it. The back held an eagle, its wings spread and its talons clutching at arrows. Along the bottom was a saying: E Pluribus Unum: Out of many, one.

He was reminded of his purpose here, or as near to it as he could get without orders from UNSC high command or ONI, and he carefully put the old coin away. Then he resumed moving into the city. As much as he admired Mendez, the old petty officer had always despised bellyaching, and wondering about where the man was and what had become of him was not going to help drive off what was coming.

Voices were breaking the chilly silence as he moved into the central region of the city. The area was set up in a circle, with a cobbled road ringing a series of buildings in the center, and more lining the outside of it. Pathways split off, heading to different residential districts, more shops, and the city's large port. There looked to be a few more ships coming in, and the Master Chief made a note to head down there later and try to get a good idea for the logistical capacities of the area, as well as what cargo they typically received here.

The two soldiers were still tailing him, hanging back a little farther now that they were further away from the palace. Occasionally the Chief would turn to stare at a store or a merchant stand and catch a glimpse of them out of the corner of his eye. They seemed more nervous now, perhaps because they were on their own. He still wasn't surprised. Almost every time that he'd encountered civilians, they'd been terrified of them. Clad in this armor, he looked to be as alien as the foes that were attempting to exterminate Humanity.

He focused his attention back on the road, noticing that up ahead was a group of white clad individuals with cowls over their heads. The robes seemed out of place for this section of the city, and they bore little resemblance to the magic academy's students and teachers. Perhaps some sort of religious organization? That would be worth studying, and could offer valuable insight into the culture of these people. It wouldn't do to offend the clerics at this point in time, after all. Back on Earth, whole wars had been started off over such things.

He moved up along the edge of the street, trying to get a better view of them. The "priests" moved in slow steps, muttering softly under their breath. He could still pick out words from time to time. Things like "light" "holiness" and "deliverance." They seemed unusually agitated, though. Perhaps yesterday's fiasco had them up in arms.

The Spartan decided to further his investigation, taking a moment to further scope them out. The robes were fairly plain in appearance, though some of them had additional colors, and some had symbols of what was apparently pewter hanging around their necks. The Master Chief took note of the appearance of the talisman: a kite-shield shaped pendant, with what appeared to be a set of scales resting on top of a hammer set into it, similar to the shield that Casavir had.

On Earth, the symbols were universal embodiments of justice and fair play. While it might not be the same here, perhaps they were judges instead of priests? He pondered whether it would be wise to disturb them, or to continue to observe. He settled on the latter, and continued to discretely watch them.

They moved slowly, but relentlessly around the circle, finally breaking off and heading towards a large building with several domes around the top. The entrance had an iron wrought gate in front of it, but it was open at the moment, and several people other than the robed individuals filled in.

Deciding to see what was up, he moved towards the gate, getting more than a few stares from the citizens of Neverwinter took notice of him. As he reached the gates, he noticed something else: off in the corner, about twenty meters away, was the robed Dwarf from yesterday, and Neeshka. The two of them were talking amiably with each other, like they were old friends. The Spartan headed over towards them, a hand raised in silent greeting.

Neeshka spotted him first, and she waved. The Spartan was tempted to smirk. She was still wearing the armor that Keyes had given to her.

"Hi, Chief," she said, smiling at him. "Up early as usual. What do you think of the city?" she spread her hands around as she finished.

"A lot of activity, considering the time and season," he said, staring back at the people who were slowly entering the courtyard. "What's all this over?"

"The crowds?" the Dwarf, Khelgar if he remembered properly, looked up at him. "It's the celebration of the Day of the Striking Lance, in which Tyr the Even Handed descended from the Heavens to aid the people in their time of need."

The Spartan raised an eyebrow behind the visor of his helmet. A local legend, probably religious in origin, given all the monk's reverent tone. That confirmed the individuals were priests. The Dwarf in front of him seemed to belong to the same order, based off his clothing.

"I see," he said after a moment, and then crossed his arms. "Who is this 'Tyr'?"

Khelgar's bushy eyebrows moved closer to the apex of his bald head. "Tyr? Lord of Justice, Protector of the Oppressed, head of the Divine Triad?" He shook his head and stared at him.

John remained silent, staring back.

"I'm honestly not surprised, barrel head," Neeshka said, leaning back against the wall. "He and the others aren't exactly from around here. I'd be surprised if he knew of any of the Gods."

"Well, then allow me to further your education," Khelgar said with a bow and a chuckle. "Tyr's the Lord of Justice, as I said, a stalwart defender of the pure and the innocent…" he went on to name a few of the events and virtues that the deity stood for, and the Spartan nodded, and then looked around at the grounds and the temple.

He could see little in the way of statues or images of the deity, though there were carvings of his symbols on the walls of the building and the courtyard. The Spartan shifted a bit as Khelgar's lecture was coming to a close, and got a good look at the inside of the building. It was relatively plain, adorned with blue and bits of gold. Towards the back, behind the head priest was a marble statue not much larger than the priest himself. Zooming in to six times magnification, the Spartan got an intimate look at the carving. It portrayed a weathered man with a great, flowing beard, wearing a heavy belt and crisscrossing leather straps that coupled to shoulder pauldrons. Aside from that, his chest was bare, and it reminded John of an image of an old Viking warrior... fitting. The statue's right hand held an arming sword with a wide crossguard, while the left, curiously, was missing. It had been a while since he had studied his Norse, but the Spartan was beginning to get a little unnerved by this.

"Is that him inside, the statue?" the Master Chief asked.

"Why yes it is, actually," Khelgar said with a bit of pride.

"Why is he missing his hand?"

"Oh, Tyr was maimed in his battle with a great chaos hound many centuries ago. He's borne it cheerfully enough, though." Khelgar smiled and folded his arms across his great barreled chest.

Chaos hound... Fenfir, perhaps? The Spartan wondered. So these people were polytheistic, and their deities could apparently be wounded. That was a far cry from the majority of Earth religions, though Nordic gods were often depicted and being quite killable, if Ragnarök was to be believed. One thing had perked his interest though.

"You speak of Tyr as if you've had a conversation with him." He looked down at the Dwarf and cocked his head to one side.

"I have actually, a few times, in fact," Khelgar smiled. "Granted, it was to inform me that, once and for all, altar candlesticks were not meant to be used for staff practice." He finished with a chuckle.

The cyborg paused for a moment, and felt a cool, liquid presence around him. Cortana had been watching too, apparently, and now she was really focusing her attention on what had just been heard.

"You look surprised," Neeshka said after a moment or two had passed. "Don't the gods of your world speak to your people on a regular occasion?"

How was one supposed to answer a question like that?

"I too am curious to know more about your world. Neeshka has told me what she could, but there is so much else. So, who do you call your patron deity?" Khelgar asked, smiling broadly.

The Spartan's mind was a mix of tumbling thoughts. This was not exactly something that Mendez had prepared them for. Further, how could these people actually be certain these so called gods were in fact that? He'd seen enough magic since his arrival to this world to understand that it was sufficient to pull the wool over someone's eyes if you were careful about it. Also, perhaps it was some mix of technology and magic. After all, Neeshka had certainly believed that the weapons they'd brought with them, and indeed, the Forward unto Dawn itself was an arcane device when she'd first seen it.

Finally, he decided to keep it short and simple.

"Religion was not a large part of our training, aside from its historical implications and military applications," he said. "Humanity has a number of religions, and I've served with people who come from almost as many: Judeo-Christians from all branches and walks, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Pagans, Deists, the list goes on."

"But what of yourself?" Khelgar insisted, twisting his head to one side.

The Master Chief felt a pang of bitterness shoot up into his throat, a vile taste coating his tongue. "There are things in this universe I don't know, and I'm smart enough to realize that there are some that I never will understand. But after all I've been through, I'll say that if there were any divine gods or goddesses present in our galaxy, they had no interest in preserving Humanity, and stood back and watched as the Covenant systematically exterminated us."

Both Neeshka and Khelgar exchanged a look. The Tiefling seemed upset, frowning and nudging the toe of her right boot into the ground. The Dwarven monk seemed a tad confused. He scratched the back of his head, and looked up at the sky, then back at the Spartan.

"You have my sympathies then, Spartan, and I must say that if that is indeed the case, I'm glad I live here. Your… realm seems a rather cold one." He shook his head shivered for a bit.

"You don't know the half of it," Cortana said, causing the two in front of him, as well as the nearby worshipers to jump.

"It's Cortana," The Master Chief said, holding up a hand. "Her programming allows her to use my suit's speakers to communicate remotely."

"I see," Khelgar muttered. "What exactly do you mean, miss? If you don't mind my asking, that is."

"It's not something I'm officially cleared to talk about, but long story short, we've spent the past thirty five years fighting against a collective of alien races hell bent on wiping us out." Cortana said, and then sighed. "Sorry if I sound a bit harsh. It hasn't been easy these past few decades to be a Human."

The two natives looked confused, and the Chief sighed. "Imagine that this city is involved with a war against a hostile neighbor, say, Luskan," he paused, and waited for them to nod. "Now imagine that Luskan armies bust down the gates and slaughter every man, woman and child simply because they happen to be from Neverwinter. Imagine that out of the entire city, maybe one person makes it out alive. Then, when the battle is over, the Luskans go to the surrounding areas and plow salt into the ground and poison all the water supplies, so that nothing will ever grow or be able to live here again." Neeshka's face had gone pale, and Khelghar's seemed to be contorted with rage, and his fists were clenching and unclenching like they were trying to squeeze someone's neck.

"Now imagine, that instead of a city, it's a planet… hundreds of planets like this one." Cortana said.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Neeshka said, shaking her horned head.

The group remained silent for a few moments, and Khelgar made something that the Master Chief assumed was a holy symbol. He decided that shifting the discussion away from Humanity's near genocide would probably be a tact course of action. Fate seemed destined to provide one for him. There was a crackling sound over his commlink.

"Chief?" It was Keyes. "Chief, where are you?"

"Near the heart of the city. Talking with Neeshka and the Dwarf from yesterday, ma'am." He responded, getting a set of looks from the two natives. "One moment." He held up his hand, and cut off his external speakers. "Orders, ma'am?"

"We're getting our stuff together now. One of those Nine bodyguards said that Nasher would want to see us later, but he's got a pretty full plate on his hands right now. We were planning on doing a little sight seeing, and getting a feel for this place."

"Some food probably wouldn't hurt either," Johnson broke in with a chuckle.

"This is a command channel, Sergeant…" Keyes tapered off.

"Sorry ma'am, but—" whatever the sergeant had been about to say was cut off by a loud rumble that sounded like a monstrous groan.

"What was that?" Cortana asked.

"Let's just say we know now what a Sangheili sounds like when his stomach says 'feed me.'" Johnson couldn't keep the mirth out of his voice, and both the Spartan and the A.I. heard the Arbiter's indignant grunt that followed.

"I'm putting a waypoint marker on myself," the Chief said. "I'm about a click and a half away from your position." A glowing orange triangle appeared on the HUD of his visor.

"Roger that, we see you." Keyes said. "Be there in fifteen."

"Understood. Sierra-117 out," he Spartan said, and then switched his speakers back on. "Apologies. That was my commander. She'll be joining us shortly."

"Oh, excellent then," Khelgar rubbed his hands together. "I've been meaning to ask the lot of you about some of those moves you were pulling yesterday. I've never seen things like that before, and I have seen quite a few in my days as a monk."

The Chief twisted his head slightly. He remembered seeing the Dwarf using some kind of martial arts moves that he'd never seen before, but he'd backlogged it then. He'd been more concerned about protecting Nasher and taking out the assassins. It wasn't terribly surprising that the monks would learn some form of defense against attackers. After all, the Chinese and Tibetan ones had done so at every opportunity, creating styles that were still in use among the UNSC. However, he was curious about Khelghar. He hadn't seen many Dwarves, but the behavior of the Battle Hammer clan led him to believe that they were not the type for quiet study and meditation.

"What's your story, Khelgar?" Cortana asked, giving voice to his thoughts.

"Well, there's not a whole lot to tell about," the Dwarf said with a shrug. "I'm an Iron-Fist, true and through, though I had a bit of a falling out with my Clan for a while. Wanted to go my own way, do my own thing."

"That's unusual?" The Spartan raised an eyebrow behind his helmet.

"I can tell you've not had much experience with Dwarves," Khlegar said with a chuckle. "The Clan is everything to us. It's what we are, where we come from. And without it, we're nothing more than lost souls. Or so I now realize."

"So what prompted you to leave?" The Master Chief crossed his arms over his chest.

"I just wanted to see what was out there. And of course, scrap it out at every opportunity," he smiled, but the smile seemed bittersweet. "Went like that for years, wandered around, taking on the odd mercenary job, brawling in taverns. Then things changed." He chuckled. "You'll think I'm crazy, but I swear it was destiny that I met those monks in that bar."

"I've heard and seen weirder." The Spartan looked down at the Dwarf.

"Well, suffice to say I had a good brawl going, and tried to get them in on it. What I got was the most thorough beating of my life. Took me a while to find all my teeth, but I made sure to thank them." He stopped in mid laugh, and his eyes suddenly got a far away look to them. "It was a long journey, but with the help of a good friend, I finally came back to the path I was supposed to tread." He lowered his head, and his voice got very quite.

"I'm sorry, have I brought up bad memories?" The Spartan knew that look and tone all too well. It suddenly felt like a knife was buried in his heart, and he remembered all the brothers and sisters that he had lost thus far.

"We first met each other through Kale Romar, a Paladin of Helm," Neeshka said, her eyes joining Khelgar's in that downcast look. "He found Khelgar in the middle of a fight, and helped him out of a scarp. In my case, he found me when I was being attacked by some corrupt guards at a fort south east of here… saved my life."

"To make a long story short, he helped save this place about a year ago from an ancient evil that got stirred up. The King of Shadows, it was called, a sentinel from a long dead empire that was still dead set on defending its long deceased 'masters.' We managed to get into its fortress, beat it down, and stop it." Khelgar's lip looked almost like it was trembling. "But the cost was high. Kale, Sand, Grobnar, and a Warlock named Ammon Jerro didn't make it out of the citadel before it collapsed."

The Spartan uncrossed his arms, and bowed his head slightly. "You have my sympathies."

"He was the first person to really treat me kindly," Neeshka said, frowning in a way that seemed uncharacteristic for her. "There isn't a person in this city who doesn't owe him their lives."

"A brave soldier." The Spartan's voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. Humanity had many heroes from the war against the Covenant. Johnson, Captain Keyes, Admiral Cole, Jericho platoon. And like this Kale fellow, with the exception of Johnson, not one of them had survived to see the silver lining, the victory over Truth's forces… that those they'd fought for, bled for, and died for, would survive.

There was a moment of silent understanding among them all, and then Khelgar chuckled weakly.

"Much as I miss him, Kale wasn't the kind to want us to stay around here, moping like a bunch of Weeping Friars." He looked over to Neeshka, who smiled faintly. Then he looked over at the Chief. "Have you eaten yet?"

"Not particularly hungry," he said, shaking his head. "But there's still much myself or the others don't know about the city, or this world. I'll accompany you, if you don't mind."

"We'd be honored," Neeshka said, smiling.

The Spartan frowned behind his helmet. Once again, he thought there was something familiar about the Tiefling, and he kept wracking his brain, trying to figure out what it was. He might need to have Cortana run a backlog of the memories stored in his neural lace.

In the meantime, he had some local culture to observe.

* * *

"Are you sure that you want to do this alone?"

Helm looked over his shoulder, staring back at Moradin. He gave the Dwarven God a crooked grin and shook his head.

"Yes. It is something I must do before I head to the Staircase. Your people need you now more than ever." The God's voice changed at the end of his sentence, becoming faint and barely audible.

He turned to face a large armoire and rested his hands against its smooth surface. It was enormous, more than twenty feet tall and wide, and set deep into the wall of the Watcher's celestial fortress. He opened it up, and inside of it were several sets of armor and weapons. Swords, axes, shields, maces, and spears all hung along the sides and along chains dangling down from the top.

He heard Moradin gasp and knew what it was that had surprised the God so. Off to the left, at the very end of the armoire was a suit that didn't belong. Far from resembling the plate armor that he usually wore, this thing looked like some manner of golem. Sharp angles covered the suit, making it look rather like a cut gemstone. Its colored varied between blue, black, and gray, and it stood like an eternal sentinel, unaffected by time and age. Bulky protrusions came off the arms, legs, and collar bone regions of it, making it look far more like it was forged for demon, rather than a humanoid.

The Dwarven God would have never guessed the suit's true history, and its true purpose. Helm felt himself drawn to it, and he walked over and stretched out his hand. It shook for a few moments, before he slowly touched the ends of his fingers to the metal. He closed his eyes, and memories flashed before his mind. A face appeared, a woman with black hair, blue eyes, and a haunting smile.

Helm shook his head violently and stepped back from the armor. He headed over to the more conventional weapons, grabbing a bastard sword and a large shield and hefting both to test their weight and balance. Then he closed the armoire with a gesture, and headed off. A few of his personal guards fell in behind him, and then they were gone.

* * *

They appeared on a small cliff side, overlooking the sea. Down below them was a large, ominous looking castle. Helm's eyes narrowed and his grip on his blade tightened. His quarry lay inside of it.

"You can come out of the shadows, Mephasm, I know you're there," he said.

"Nothing gets past the Watcher," the devil gave a wry smile as he emerged into the visible light spectrum. Behind him was a small army of various Devils, about two hundred strong. "I have brought the items you requested." He bowed slightly. "And some extra reinforcements to assist you."

"Your master understood my plans and offered his assistance, but what, I wonder, is in this for you?" Helm smiled wryly behind his helmet.

"The knowledge that Demogorgon will be defeated that much sooner, granting us an edge in this eternal war between his kind and ours." Mephasm blinked, and turned into his true form. He was now ten feet tall, with deep red and gold scales, and a wingspan of more than half again his height. His demonic face twisted into a grin, and with a gesture, a flaming mace and blade appeared in his hands. "Besides, my master and I have one thing in common in regards to you, Helm."

"And what might that be? What does that old snake see in all this?" He gestured towards his body.

"Well for starters, he respects you. Did you know that?" Mephasm cocked his head, raising a scaled eye-ridge. "And so do I. You are an anomaly among the Gods. You have no hubris or ego to speak of, you do your job without complaint, and you're always willing to do whatever is necessary." The Devil chuckled a bit. "I suppose that's why Ao chose for you to guard the Staircase. Why you alone, out of all of them, will not suffer his wrath. You're different from them… unique."

"Strange words to come from you, Pit Fiend."

"True. Perhaps in you, I see a bit of myself." Mephasm shrugged. "You should know, my master has foreseen a part of the future. You will have to do battle with at least one of the other Gods. Which one, and the outcome of the fight, he cannot tell."

"I feared as much," Helm said, bowing his head.

"You will probably become very unpopular among the other deities, to say nothing of the mortals." The Devil continued.

"Won't be the first time that I've had enormous consequences for my actions. For now, though, we've a Demon Prince to imprison. Shall we?" He looked over at the angels and devils behind him.

"Lead the way," Mephasm said with a bow.

Helm tightened his grip on his blade and glared down at Watcher's Keep. The air around him stirred a bit, and the God levitated up a few inches. He cocked his sword back, and then swung it forward, a single world leaving his mouth.

"Charge!"

* * *

Okay, hope that chapter wasn't a complete piece of crap. Not really sure what to say aside from that. I hope you all enjoyed it, and that you aren't forming lynch mobs to hunt me down and beat me up.

Until next time, folks, please stay safe, and best of luck to you in life.


	13. Chapter Twelve: Survival

Hello there everyone. Sorry again for the delay, but life's been busy. School's going okay for the moment, though Civil Procedure is somewhat confusing. Aside from that, all is well in the world.

I want to once again thank everyone who read the story and took time out of their lives to look over my amateur works. To those of you who reviewed, my thanks to you especially, and I hope that I answered your questions well.

To the lawyers whose ranks I will probably one day be numbered among (though not Torts. I refuse to help perpetuate the idiocy that is running rampant in that branch): I once again swear upon my immortal soul that I own nothing save the characters that I created myself, and intend to profit neither from WOTC or Bungie's creative works.

Finally, the musical influence for this chapter (and a number of future ones) is not a song per say, but an actual soundtrack in an of itself: Crysis Warhead. Most, if not all of it can be found on youtube, and it is quite awesome if I do say so myself.

That said, here we go.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve- Survival.**

* * *

"And so then, I tell him, 'I know you didn't just call me short, because it's not wise to insult something eye level with your groin!'" Khelgar roared, balling up his fists and sweeping them back and forth. "And then I drug him across the table and booted his arse out of the window."

Johnson began to laugh like a madman, thumping the table with his armored gauntlet. "Man, just like what happened when I first ran into Besenti." The man got a faraway look in his eyes, but quickly shook it off.

"Interesting story. Are all Dwarves as… rowdy, as yourself?" Orna said, cocking his head to one side.

"Mostly," Neeshka remarked, her tail sneaking up behind Khelgar and tapping him on the shoulder to make him look the other way, a move that made the Dwarf snarl in a good natured fashion. "As you can see, they can be a little predictable too," she finished with a giggle.

"So it would appear," The Master Chief mused, standing upright next to the table that they were eating breakfast at. He was doing this because the bench that he had tentatively attempted to sit in at first had creaked very ominously, and the cyborg had decided that trying to push his luck, when he weighed as much as he did in his armor, was probably not a good idea.

The inkeep was already being especially nice to them, letting them have breakfast on the house. It had seemed as though word had reached the ears of the populace about the attempt on Lord Nasher's life the previous day, and the result was that he and the rest of the crew were being hailed as heroes. He could have done without the accolades, and it truly made him concerned. It meant that there was an information leak somewhere in the palace, and that they would have to be extra careful when letting out information. The large number of guards and nobles present during the attack made it hard to figure out who had let it slip. It was, of course, entirely possible that Nasher had freely let the information out. After all, several nobles had been killed by crossbow bolt fire, and covering up the reason for their demise was an operation that would have been tricky at best. Failure would probably not have sat well with the people, and they would need to be united now more than ever.

"Chief, you are aware that you can take your helmet off, correct?" Commander Keyes said, looking up at him from where she was chewing on a piece of dried meat.

"Apologies, Commander, but I believe that it would remain in our best interest that my face remain hidden. The locals are unnerved enough by the Arbiter, and from what I've gathered, my skin and eyes make me resemble a," he paused for a moment, stumbling for just a second over the native word, "vampire."

"Oh, really now?" Khlegar looked around, staring at him and then at Neeshka for a moment. "That true, lass?"

"I thought he was one at first. How did you get like that?" the Tiefling cocked her head to one side, tapping a pewter fork against her plate.

"Most of the information in regards to my… augmentations is classified, and I can't tell you. My skin suffers from an absence of sunlight, too much time spent in the armor."

"I see," Khelgar said, and then smirked. "Can't say I blame ya, and if that thing can do all the things that goat girl over here says she's seen it do, I wouldn't want to take it off either." He chuckled again.

The Master Chief couldn't help himself, and he smiled underneath his helmet and nodded his head. "It does have its uses, and it has saved my life. But equipment is only as good as the man or woman behind it."

"You're preaching to the choir here," Neeshka said. "You wouldn't believe the number of idiots I've run into in my line of work. They make you wonder how we've managed to survive this long."

"I've had my fair share of those individuals myself," Orna said, his mandibles twitching in the Sangheili variant of a smile. "Though in my case, most of them were my superiors."

"That is a question I've been meaning to ask," Johnson said, pointing a finger at the Elite. "Were all the Prophets as deranged as Truth was, or was he something special?"

"Most were not quite… that out of the loop," Orna said with a shrug. "But they did have their moments."

The Master Chief sensed where this might have been heading, and decided that it was a good time to change the subject, before old wounds got torn open again.

"Has Lord Nasher had anything to say to you in regards to the incident?" he asked Neeshka.

The Tiefling looked up at him and shook her head. "Nope. He has a tendency to put the needs of his kingdom before his own. He has a number of advisors and messengers he usually has to wade through before he gets to me. I suspect, if anything, he'd still be reviewing the reports that I left for him." She leaned back and stretched her arms slightly. "Which means that I get to enjoy a rare day off."

"We still need to get a good look around this city, Neeshka," Keyes said, looking at the other girl pointedly. "If the Luskans decide to mobilize, we might have to help defend the city, and we need to know where best to stick our gear."

"I agree," Orna said, nodding his head eagerly. "Knowledge of the terrain grants one an enormous edge on the field of battle."

"Then let's get moving," Neeshka said, reaching for the UNSC helmet at her side.

However, as she went to put it on, the door to the pub opened. Sir Nevalle walked in, his face a mask of impassiveness, but the Master Chief was able to read his eyes. There was sorrow there, and a hint of fear. He held his helmet under one hand, and chewed on his lip nervously as he approached. John gave no movement, but his mind was aflutter with theories. What could be wrong? Could the Luskans have returned? Could another attempt have been made on Nasher's life?

"Sir." Neeshka said, taking notice on him and bowing slightly.

"You're hard to track down some times, agent." He kept his face neutral. "Something has come up. Lord Nasher wishes to make use of your friend's Spell Jammer, if he can."

All eyes fell upon Keyes. She rose from her seat and crossed her arms, staring at the man in front of her for a moment or two.

"It depends," she said. "What does he want to use it for?"

Nevalle leaned in closer to her, and the Master Chief noticed that he was starting to sweat, apparently nervous from something. "I cannot speak of it publicly, Commander, but it is an issue where hast is of the utmost importance. Haste, and safety. Two things my lord needs right now. Two things that your ship can provide."

Keyes frowned for a moment, and then nodded. "Let me bring it in. There's a market square up ahead. We'll load up there and then head for the castle."

"You have the thanks of the city, my lady." Nevalle bowed low.

* * *

Mias growled and raised his rifle, snapping off a round. The plasma burned off shaded colors of white and blue, testament to its extreme temperatures. It hit the creature dead in the center of its chest. It seemed to ignite as the bolt hit, turning into a fiery torch that screamed and flailed about, heading away from the battalion.

"Regroup!" he barked over the comm. channel.

It took only a few seconds for everyone to fall back in line. Still, the Sangheili commander was ill at ease. There was so much going on in this accursed swampland. First those strange creatures that looked like walking tree stumps, then huge serpents, and finally these…parasites. He knew no other term appropriate for them. They were not like the Flood. They did not seem overly intelligent, nor near as cunning as that old foe… but like the Flood, they were absolutely relentless. They never stopped. In the daytime, they would retreat somewhat, and attacks would become less frequent, but they never truly ceased.

Lokar and Denos were invaluable here. Their worm-like bodies could sense the vibrations caused by the massing tides of green, giving them warning and enabling them to seek out defensive ground.

"N'Tho, Usze, any signs of additional hostiles?"

"Negative, Commander," Usze responded from his position, some hundred meters in the air. The Ranger's jetpack was keeping him stabilized, and enabled him to fire down on these parasites without fear of retaliation.

"Come back down and let your jets recharge," Mias said, sighing to himself.

By some miracle of the universe or another, they hadn't suffered any fatalities, though a number of the Unggoy had been wounded by the battles that had been waged, and Gazap had been swallowed alive by one of the large snakes and had cursed up quite a storm until the thing had been killed and he'd been cut out of its belly. Their ammo, however, was something else. They were running low, down to about six hundred rounds for a standard rifle, and two power cells for each of their plasma cannons.

If they didn't figure out a way out of here soon, they would be cut down simply because they would have no means by which they would be able to defend themselves.

Still, they were about a day and a half away from their intended destination. If they got free of this infernal and accursed place, he could have his troops bunker up, while the Specter's made runs to and from the ship to retrieve supplies.

The Commander clacked his lover mandibles together and kept moving forward. Had to keep pressing, he reminded himself. There was too much at stake to just be lost in one's own despair.

* * *

Helm grunted as he swung his sword at his hated foe. The lightning quick blow connected, and he heard his foe howl in rage and pain, while blackish-green ichor splattered everywhere. A blast of holy energy appeared from nothingness a moment later, enveloping his foe and causing another scream of agony to echo through the chamber, rocking the keep to its very foundations.

The God held up his shield and started to circle Demogorgon, his eyes narrowed in hate and daring the Demon Prince to come and get him. Four eyes settled on him, and both of the creature's mouths opened in a roar that was long and loud. Its tentacled appendages blasted towards him, crackling with dark, unholy energies that could slay ordinary men with even the slightest of touches.

The God parried and blocked each strike with mastery and precision, sending spells blasting into the hide of his adversary.

For how long the battle had raged between the two of them, he knew not. He couldn't hear the sounds of combat from elsewhere in the keep, and judging by the fact that there was not a small army of monsters rushing into this chamber to defend their wretched master, he assumed that it had ended in his favor.

At last, Demogorgon made a mistake, and overreached himself. Helm took the opportunity, and ducked underneath the Demon Prince's reach, stabbing his blade straight into its heart. Even that was not enough to kill the vile creature, but it did cause it to falter and stumble. Helm smiled grimly behind his helmet, and started to chant. It was a haunting, echoing tongue that he used, unknown to even the magi and clerics of this world. Objects appeared around him, glyphs of power and artifacts forged by his people and the others provided by Mephasm. The mix of Holy and Unholy was what was required to bind a being of this type of power and Helm's eyes narrowed as he focused his will into manipulating the titanic energies. The artifacts spun and whirled around the Demon Prince and a high pitched whine filled the air.

Demogorgon instantly knew what was happening, and what fate would be his if the God should finish. It screamed in rage, a sound that would have driven men mad and caused the roof to shudder above their heads. He tried to rise, but he had been too weakened by the God's strikes and spells. Steam and ash rose from his battered body, and he glared at his foe with hatred that would have unnerved even the most staunch of paladins.

Helm finished his chanting with a thunderous cry, and a great light filled the chamber, falling down over the Demon Prince and transforming itself into a tightened series of chains and bars, which were looped around the various artifacts. Demogorgon howled as he realized that he was trapped within them

"Wretched, cursed, God!" his twin heads screamed at Helm, their teeth gnashing and snarling. "Do you think that this binding will hold me forever? I will get free, and I will come for you! None may contain me, and none beyond my retribution! I will escape, and I will devour your divine essence, feast upon your life-force… and I will slaughter everyone who had even the remotest involvement with this!" He struggled furiously lashing out and straining his bindings, only to be repelled by the holy energies that were running through them.

Helm said nothing, merely turned from where he was and headed back towards the stairs that had lead down to this chamber. There was a faint smile on his face. Bound as he was, unable to directly interfere with the events of the world, Torill would finally be rid of Demogorgon's hated influence. As he climbed the stairs he could still hear the beast struggling, spitting curses at him and vowing vengeance, even if it took him ten thousand years.

Helm's response was to slam the doors that led down to the chamber, and ward them against intruders. No one would be getting past this place without paying for it with their lives, and possibly their souls. The grim smiled widened, but he knew that his day was not done. As soon as he was finished warding this place, he would have to assume his post at the Celestial staircase. His foresight had blessed him greatly.

Already, Bane would be breaking into the halls of Ao, and stealing the divine tablets of the Overgod, thinking to tap into its power and make himself the ruler of all creation.

The arrogance. The audacity. He would shed no tears when the fool was destroyed by his actions. They reminded him all too well of the actions of another, countless lifetimes ago.

"I take it then, that the battle ended in your favor?"

Helm looked over to see Mephasm standing there. The Pit Lord's demonic face was twisted into a grin, his fangs bared and his wings spread as wide as they could.

"He's bound. For now, at least. I'll need to come up with a means to isolate him completely, but we can expect no further trouble from him." Helm took off his namesake, and extended his hand towards his unlikely comrade.

Mephasm took it and shook it. "I assume that you go to your post?"

"Within minutes, Bane will make his move, and all will come tumbling down. Such is how things must go." Helm shook his head. "And what of you?"

"I figured I'd go visit someone while I was up here." The Devil shrugged, and assumed his more human like form.

Helm chuckled heartily, clapped his ally on the shoulder. "You are a peculiar one of your kind. Don't the others speak of you about that?"

"If they do, they are intelligent enough to do it when I'm not in earshot," Mephasm said with a scowl, before bowing and teleporting away.

Helm chuckled and shook his head, before gathering his forces and following suit.

* * *

The Master Chief clutched at the handgrip above his head, his battle rifle held down by his side in the other. He was staring out of the small porthole in the back of the Pelican's holding bay. The landscape beneath them was whizzing by at a dizzying rate, but he wished it would go faster. The situation merited all haste, and every moment they were in the air could result in some vital clue disappearing or being damaged.

"Commander, ETA?" he asked over the comm. system.

"One minute and thirty at current speed. Beginning to slow our approach. Cortana, status on the second Pelican?"

"Second Pelican will arrive twelve point zero five seconds after we do." The A.I. responded. "The occupants are confused, but once I mentioned the possibility of this being a Drow raid, they were scrambling to get on board."

"Open up a link to them, if you can," the Spartan said. Cortana gave no audio acknowledgment, but his speakers were soon flooded by the sound of the chatter in the second dropship. There was a lot going on, he deduced, and while he recognized the voices of Wulfgar, Drizzt, and Bruenor, there were several that he didn't. A personal escort perhaps? "Contacting Pelican Omega-Eight, this is Spartan One-One-Seven, do you copy, over."

There was a moment of pause and then he heard the voice of Bruenor.

"We hear ya, if that's what yer meaning."

"You're going to be over the target in less than a minute, get ready," the Spartan replied.

"It won't matter." It was Drizzt. "They'll be long gone by now, back into the hole that brought them to the surface."

"And what are the odds of them leaving behind traps?" the Chief inquired.

"Possible, but unlikely. They come in, butcher at will, and then leave. That is how my people operate." Drizzt said. Chief detected a note of sorrow in his voice and something else. It sounded like the voice of experience. He decided not to press the issue.

"T-minus thirty to ingress," Cortana's voice echoed in his ears.

He tightened his grip upon his battle rifle, and narrowed his eyes. Slowly, he made his way over to the hatch, being careful not to crowd Khelgar, Neeshka, or Lord Nasher's bodyguards. At the same time, he would have to be ready in order to protect any of them in the event of an ambush.

The dropship suddenly spun around as it rapidly descended, and for a moment the Spartan felt his stomach try to relocate to a higher portion of his body. The doors began to open, and his rifle blurred up to a ready position. His adrenaline spiked and the world once more began to slow.

The sight of death and smoke met his eyes, but his breathing filters mercifully kept the stench of death away from him. He scanned left and right, catching no sign of any hostiles on any of the spectrums. He stepped out onto the ramp, ready to bolt back to protect the other occupants of the ship in the event that a trap was sprung.

A whir came from behind him, and a pair of UAVs shot off into the air. They would scope around and try to find any hint of where the Drow might have gone, or where they could have come from.

Not seeing or sensing any hostiles in the immediate surroundings, the Master Chief slung the battle rifle over onto his back, and drew his shotgun. Behind him, Johnson dashed towards a nearby hill, his O2 held in his hands and another UAV taking position over him, just in case there were any surprises waiting nearby.

The Spartan slowly walked towards the burning huts of the village, his weapon at the ready, but his eyes were also upon the ground. Foot prints were stamped into the earth. Some were heavy, some were light. He raised an eyebrow at one particular set that came in from the east. They were spread out, definitely not human. In fact, they almost appeared to be reptilian in their nature. Frowning, the Spartan kneeled down to get a better look at them.

Each print was about seven feet apart from one another, and behind them was a series of wave like motions in the ground, like a tail had been drug across it. He'd never seen any large lizards in his time around here, and it probably wasn't an ideal candidate for a farming animal. That meant it was likely a Drow war-mount of some kind. Perhaps the leader's?

The Spartan logged the bit of information in the back of his mind and kept moving forward. From the west, Drizzt and the others had landed, and were making their way in towards the village heart.

"UAV scans of the surrounding area complete. No sign of hostiles within one kilometer of the village. Moving on to search for probable entrances," Cortana said.

"Roger," Keyes said. "Arbiter, move up and assist the Chief."

"Of course, ma'am," Orna said, his rifles drawn and held in his hands.

It took the Sangheili only moments to reach the Spartan's position. Johnson came down soon after, putting away his sniper rifle and pulling out his carbine.

"Cover me," the Chief said, moving forward, towards the heart of the village. He could already see the bodies.

"Nasher and his escort are moving out," Keyes said.

"Acknowledged." The cyborg returned, passing the first fire gutted structure.

He gave the building a quick scan, but found that there was nothing there that was of use. Everything had been burnt to ash, and the support structure could go at any moment. The second held little more.

Then he reached the first of the corpses. He noticed the others coming in from the side, and his motion detector was picking up Nasher's escort, twenty-five meters behind his current location. Taking another look around, double-checking to make certain that there was nothing that constituted a threat, he knelt down next to the body, his shotgun still held in his right hand. It was a women, elderly for this time period, probably mid fifties to sixties, judging by the lines and the wrinkles on her face, and the gray color of her hair, and dressed in a nightgown of sorts. Her eyes were open, staring silently up at him, her face a mask of pain. The Spartan was tempted to reach out and close the eyes, but he resisted that urge. It could wait until all observations had been finished.

He carefully prodded an arm, and met stiff resistance. Rigor mortis had set in completely by now, not unexpected, considering that these corpses were likely a day or two old, but there were some neural and muscle toxins that prevented it. That ruled them out.

A fly buzzed onto the corpse, and John recognized it as a bluefly, which confirmed his suspicions about the corpses' age. Those were always the first to arrive. However, it didn't seem to be trying to feed on the body, or lay eggs. Perhaps it knew that something was wrong? There was a distinct lack of blood around the body, after all. He'd wait for Drizzt's opinion on the matter, but it seemed like poison was the likely killer.

Just in case, the Spartan reached down into his supply belt, and pulled out a syringe. Finding a vein in the old woman's arm was easy enough, and he was able to collect a small amount of blood. He carefully sealed the syringe up in a biohazard container, and pocketed it. He'd have Cortana analyze the blood when he got back onboard the Pelican, see if she could figure out if a toxin had been administrated, and if so, what it was, and most importantly if there could be an antidote to be synthesized.

The Spartan rose and moved up towards the next set of bodies. They seemed to be clustered around the center of the small village, as if they'd been trying to run here and seek shelter. Some had bolts wounds in their back, evidence of small, but still potent, crossbows. Others had been hacked apart, their body parts spread all over the landscape. Others had swelled up horribly from some type of toxin.

The Master Chief took it all in with a cold, precise eye. He looked at the footprints upon the ground, the way the bodies were splayed out, and began to put together the pieces.

"They snuck up, surrounded the village. Probably a night assault." It made sense. Dark Elves could see heat, and humans didn't have the best night vision, particularly if they didn't get enough vitamin A, and he wasn't certain there would be many viable sources for it this far north. It also explained the state of dress most of them had. "Drizzt," he called out, waiting until he had the ranger's attention.

"Yes?" the Drow asked, his lavender eyes staring around at the destruction. They seemed haunted.

"What's the size of an average raiding party?" He asked.

"The one that I was in held twenty members. This one seems to have been larger, maybe thirty or more," the Drow replied.

The one that he had been in? So there was more to Drizzt's past than he had let on. He supposed it was natural. Drizzt was an exile among his own people, and if this was any indication of what the Drow were like, it wasn't something that most people would openly discuss. The Master Chief sympathized with him. The Spartans certainly had their fair share of demons in their past.

"Any chance that it was those 'Bregan D'arth' guys?" Johnson asked. "Maybe they came down here after scoping out the battle site." Cortana had shown them all the footage of the Drow mercenaries that had examined the remnants of their little scrap with the Luskans and the Orcs, and Drizzt had since told them as much about the organization as he could.

"I do not think so," the Ranger said. "There would be no profit motive for Jarlaxle to slaughter villagers like this. No valuables. It would be a waste of time and energy for him."

The Master Chief nodded to himself. That meant it was probably the forces of one of the Houses. Perhaps they were slaking their blood lust? Or was it something more practical than that? Were they trying to get their troops prepared for the weather and sunlight of the surface world? He would have to consider those possibilities.

"Not even the children…" he heard Lord Nasher say, and turned to face him. The man's face was a twisted mask of sorrow, and he could see unshed tears glistening in his eyes. "This is but an omen of things to come…" he whispered, shaking his head and looking down at the ground. But, when he looked back up, rage burned in those eyes, sharp as daggers and hard as steel. "Mark my words, all of you, for the blood spilled here, I will make the Drow pay a hundred fold!"

The Master Chief nodded, and began to turn around, when he heard a gagging noise, followed by retching. He twisted back to see Sir Nevalle releasing the contents of his last meal onto the ground.

"Suck it up, boy," Johnson growled, his face hidden behind his helmet, his visage an enigma. He shook his head for a moment. "And you call yourself a soldier."

For a moment, one could have heard a pin drop in the ruins. All eyes fell upon the Sergeant Major. They moved between him and Nevalle, and their expressions varied. Some looked shocked, some looked horrified, while others like Khelghar and Bruenor seemed curious as to what could have prompted such a statement.

Sir Nevalle spoke first, wiping his mouth with the back of his gauntlet.

"This does not bother you… soldier?" He put a bit of contempt into the last word, and then gestured around, still coughing a bit. "The sight of a good hundred or two murdered, in cold blood, utterly defenseless before these… savages… doesn't make you sick to your stomach?"

"I have seen worse," Johnson said. Then his voice dropped to a low whisper. "Good God, have I seen worse."

"You'd be hard pressed to convince me you've seen worse than this butchery," Nevalle responded. "These people had nothing to defend themselves with, nothing! They were slaughtered like animals!"

"How old are you?" Johnson asked, looking over to the man..

"What kind of a—"

"How. Old. Are. You." Johnson repeated.

"Thirty and two winters," Nevalle said, glaring slightly.

"Thirty two years… okay." He nodded. "I'm about eighty five myself, and I've spent half my life fighting a war. A war that carried me across three hundred worlds, across a thousand battlefields, every one of them littered with scenes that make this," he gestured around him, "look tame, look like a paradise. Hell, I _wish_ the Covenant had been so kind to people they captured. At least these wounds killed the folks here quickly." He moved towards Nevalle, and stopped when the two were nearly chest to chest, though Johnson was taller than the man by a good half foot.

"Merely because one is old does not make what you have seen worse," Nevalle countered.

"The Covenant," Johnson continued, "they don't kill quick unless they've got somewhere else to be. They like to torture, to watch you squirm. To them, a Human's nothing more than an animal, a piece of meat to stab and prod until it finally stops twitching." He gestured down to his knife. "The Sangheili had these little knives, kinda like this one, except they could electrify 'em. They'd take these, stick them in you; maybe in your leg, maybe your gut, and then they'd twist them back and forth," he accentuated each word with a stabbing gesture aimed at Nevalle's chest and thighs. "Sometimes they'd cut off a finger, or a hand. Then, when they were done, they'd take their plasma rifles and turn the yield down, just enough to cauterize the wound and keep you from bleeding to death. They'd do this for hours… days sometimes. And finally, after you've screamed yourself hoarse, begging for them to kill you, they cut you lose, and they toss you into the environment chambers with the Unggoy." He paused for a few moments, drawing a few ragged breaths, and his free hand was twitching spasmodically. "Unggoy are methane breathers, a Human can't live in their atmosphere for long… but there's just enough oxygen for your body to hold out for a few more minutes. And the Unggoy, well, they're low on the Covenant totem pole, they don't get good field rations, and they enjoy a little variety."

Nevalle's face paled and took on a greenish tint as the implications sank in. Even the Dwarves were looking a little white underneath their fire-tanned skins.

"And the worst part? The Unggoy aren't a patient bunch. You're still alive when they start to eat you." He was clearly glaring behind his helmet. "You see enough of that kind of shit, and you see it often enough, and you get desensitized to it… it doesn't bother you anymore."

"Now I think _I'm_ going to be sick," Khelgar muttered. Bruenor nodded faintly.

"Don't be," Johnson growled. "Puking up your last meal all over the ground won't avenge these people. Tracking down the sorry bastards who did it and killing them will. Lord Nasher has the right idea."

With that Johnson turned and headed over to a small group of corpses- children that had been cut down where as they'd huddled together for protection. The Master Chief and Drizzt soon joined him.

From where she stood, Neeshka wrestled with her disbelief, and tried to quell the feelings of nausea that were building in her stomach. The horrors that Johnson had spoken of weighed heavily on her, but so did something else. He'd mentioned 'Sangheili'. That was what Orna's race called itself, wasn't it? Could he…?

No, she didn't want to think about it, but the thought kept nagging at her. Faintly, she could hear Drizzt speaking with the other two about how the children had died, and what methods the raiding party had employed. She barely noticed, however. Stumbling about in a daze, Neeshka made her way around. After a moment, she paused, and realized that there were two more bodies in front of her. It was a man and a woman, both a little older than herself. Brother and sister, or man and wife? She wondered as she knelt down next to them. It was hard to tell, their faces had been mutilated beyond recognition by the Drow.

She reached out, and ignoring the blood on both of their faces. With a heavy heart she closed the woman's eyes. The scene here was far too much like Ember. There, the Luskans had slaughtered the whole village for the purpose of pinning it on Kale, and trying to get their hands on him… and the chunk of the Githyanki silver sword in his chest.

A shadow fell over her, and she looked up to see Orna standing there, his mandibles twitching. He too assumed a kneeling position and shut the eyes of the man. He said nothing, but his strange, slitted eyes seemed filled with sorrow, and perhaps, haunted. There was much that the Tiefling wanted to ask him right now, but she couldn't bring herself too. The possibility that the honor bound soldier that she had come to see Orna as might not be the whole truth weighed heavily upon her. She was used to being lied to, deceived because of her hellish blood. But these people had seemed different, had not judged her.

She didn't want to think that she might be standing the presence of a mass murderer. Johnson's claims of torture brought back other unpleasant memories.

She remembered herself being caught in the Illfarne ruins. Black Garius hovering over her, his burning skeletal face screaming in insane laughter as he ripped into her mind, picking through her memories and torturing her with his magic. She shuddered, despite the warmth that the embers and coals provided.

"Neeshka… is something wrong?" Orna asked, his eyes focusing upon her.

She tried to look him in the eyes, but found that she couldn't. Sighing, the Tiefling turned away, and headed over to where the others were.

She saw that a new member had been added to the little team over there. Drizzt had summoned Guenhwyvar. She had heard tales of the massive, arcane cat, a black panther of supernatural power and strength. It was sniffing around, seeing if it could detect any traces of magic. Nothing appeared to come from it, though.

"Interesting pet," she heard Commander Keyes say as she drew closer.

"Guenhwyvar is a loyal friend… and has been my companion for longer than you have been alive, commander," Drizzt said, rubbing the cat's large head, though his eyes were filled with sorrow. "I was once involved with a raid like this… many decades ago. Moon Elves were the target then. A small village, celebrating some holiday still unknown to me."

"What happened?" The Master Chief spoke up, shifting slightly as he stared down at the body of a slain dog, seeming to take note of how the ears had been removed.

"They were butchered… all save one." Drizzt bowed his head and then turned away.

Neeshka went to open her mouth, but then she felt a strange tingling in her body, like her blood was simmering. It wasn't painful, just strange. It made her nervous and she looked around, seeing if there was a Drow wizard, or something else unpleasant that had just popped up.

Nothing.

She heard a groan, and turned to see Khelgar falling to the ground, along with several of Lord Nasher's escort. Drizzt sword suddenly as the black oynx figuring that Guen had come from turned red hot and fell to the ground, causing the dark earth to smoke and bake in its heat.

The Master Chief, Johnson, and Keyes reacted instantly, their weapons out and looking about in different directions, searching for this foe. Fearing for her friend, Neeshka rushed over to Khelgar. The Dwarven monk was groaning, and slowly trying to rise up. He managed to get halfway to his feet, and then slumped again.

"What's wrong?" she asked, picking up by the shoulders and staring into his eyes, a feat easier than it had been in prior times, thanks to her new armor. "Khelgar?"

"Tyr… his… presence… I can't feel him anymore." The Dwarf looked up at her, and for one of the few times in his life, the fear was livid on his face.

"Neither can I!" cried one of Nasher's bodyguards.

Drizzt hurriedly snatched up the figurine—apparently it was cool enough to touch now. Even from here, and with the cloak covering most of his face, Neeshka could see the uneasiness on his face. Guenhwyvar edged closer, growling softly and staring at her means of summoning. Drizzt kept it well away from her, though. Something was wrong.

"Cortana, bring the Dawn's long range sensors online immediately, I want to know what's going on!" Keyes barked as everyone scrambled about.

"Scanning." The A.I. said, and Neeshka could hear a strange tone to her voice through the comm. system of her suit. "Amazing… the EM scanners are absolutely of the charts… everything is going berserk. And—hold on, wait a second." She paused for a split second. "Commander, you're not going to believe this. Long range scanners are picking up a transponder signal from a downed ship."

"What?" Keyes, Johnson, Orna, and The Master Chief all said at once.

"Covenant in origin, Sangheili to be specific. It's spamming an S.O.S. signal from the middle of that swamp that Regis was telling us about."

There was a moment of silence, and everyone seemed to look at each other. Then Orna's eyes narrowed. "If my brothers are here, then I will not abandon them."

Keyes nodded. "For better or for worse, they are our allies now. And the UNSC does not abandon its allies. Cortana, keep the UAV's in orbit over this village, just in case something comes up. Neeshka, tell Lord Nasher to board the Pelican and get back to Neverwinter. We'll take the other one, head back to the Dawn, and gear up."

There was a mad scramble of activity as everyone rushed about, picking up those who were stunned and carrying them to the Pelican heading for Neverwinter. Neeshka made certain that Lord Nasher was onboard, and safely buckled in, and then moved to secure herself.

"Wait, Neeshka," he said, holding up a hand. "This swamp—"

"The Trollmoors, my lord." She said, answering his question. His face paled a bit.

"Neeshka, you are among our most skilled agents. These strangers have been an enormous aid to us. If you do not mind, please, go and help them. They may need you."

She nodded without hesitation, and bolted out of the craft, racing over towards them. She heard Khelgar call out for her to be safe, and waved in return. The Tiefling saw Drizzt standing next to that girl, Cattie-Brie if she remembered correctly, and handing her the figurine that he carried.

"Bruenor, Wulfgar, and I have traversed the Trollmoors before. Our expertise may be needed. Take Guen with you, and please keep her safe. I don't know what's happening, but I can't stand the thought of loosing her."

"I'll keep ye'er cat safe, don't be troubling yourself about that. You just make certain that big lummox and me father come back in one piece," she replied, her eyes and tone serious.

Drizzt nodded, and then turned and headed for the other Pelican.

It was unknown to any of them, but all across Faerun, and Toril itself, thing were changing. The theft of Ao's tablets by Bane and his associates would have consequences that none of them could imagine.

As he took his post at the Celestial staircase, and watched his fellow Gods and Goddesses be cast down by the wrath of Ao the Overfather, Helm gave a smile that was bitter, sad, and triumphant all in one. The board was moving and shifting, and now it was time for the second phase of his plan to fall into motion.

* * *

Well, that's that, as they say. Hope it wasn't too bad, and I apologize again for all the delays in getting these out to you guys.

As always, feedback is welcomed with open arms, be it comments, constructive criticism, flames, ideas, or the like. I enjoy them all (even the flames would be useful now, as its a little chillier than I'm used to down here).

Until next time, everyone, stay safe and happy. Best of luck to you.


	14. Chapter Thirteen Alliances

Hello, hello, sorry for all the delays again, folks. It's been midterms time again, and I've been studying up for those. On spring break now, though, so in between my practice essays and more studying, I'll have a little more time to work on this. Should have another chapter ready to go in just a few days.

Hope all of you guys are doing well, and that life's not treating you too harshly. As always, my humblest thanks to those of you who have taken time out of your lives to read the story, and I hope that those of you who reviewed had your questions answered.

At any rate, standard disclaimer: I swear upon my surprisingly still existent soul (no, Law school has not yet managed to suck it all out, though it's doing its best), that I claim no ownership of the intellectual property of the Halo and NWN franchises. All characters here not of my own creation are the property of the above mentioned franchises.

Musical influence for this chapter: Ace Combat's Operation Bunker Shot. As with most of these, it can be heard on youtube.

Now, onwards!

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen- Alliance**

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* * *

  
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The Pelican rumbled as it accelerated back towards the _Forward Unto Dawn_ and within it, the motley and unlikely group of soldiers, warriors, and covert scouts were busy. The Master Chief had his audio and visual recorders rolling, capturing every second of what was happening. Orna Fulsamee was pacing back and forth, trying to get his personal comm. unit to burn through all of the interference between here and the downed Covenant ship, trying to see if he could reach any of his Sangheili brothers. He wasn't having any luck, though, and it seemed as though they were going to have to wait until they got back to the dawn to manage any form of contact.

"Okay, one more time, run it by me, what can they be expected to run into out there in the moors, and how do you put it down and make certain that its not getting back up." Commander Keyes growled, her voice hard in a unique way, something that reminded the Spartan of how her father used to speak.

"I've been running over that book that Regis gave us, and it looks like Bog Blokes, Dire Serpents, and Trolls are the largest threats," Cortana said. "I've read up on all of them, but Drizzt, Bruenor, and Wulfgar claim to have experience dealing with them. I'd prefer firsthand accounts."

"Then ye'll be getting 'em," Bruenor said, leaning forward in his seat, and using his mithril axe as a cane of sorts. "The Bog Blokes are probably just like your little text describes, little walking tree stumps. Stubborn as the Nine Hells, the lot of them. Hard to knock down, harder to kill." He paused for a moment collecting his thoughts, and the Spartan saw an imposed picture of one of them appear on his HUD. "Just like dealing with a tree stump, though, you want a large, hefty blade to get through that wooden hide 'o theirs, and then you don't let up."

The Master Chief frowned. Their combat knives were monoblades, but if what the Dwarf King was saying was true, it was debatable how quickly they'd be able to hurt the things. Still, there was always punching the things, or burning them.

"Dire Snakes?" he asked, cocking his head to one side.

"Just your big damned snake is all. Fast, though, and they like to strike from the water." Bruenor continued. "Simple enough to kill. Whack 'em over the head enough times, and they'll topple like anything else."

The Spartan thought back to what he knew of serpentine biology. The creatures tended to have organs that were tightly clustered about one third of the way down their bodies. Shots to that region would be the most fatal. Then he nodded, and the Dwarf continued.

"Trolls are likely to be their biggest worry. They don't call that place the Trollmoor for nothing. Those things… those monsters don't know how to die."

"What do you mean?" Orna's mandibles flared slightly in agitation. "I do not understand."

"What I mean, Arbiter, is that you can hack a Troll apart, cleave it into a score of pieces, or squash it so flat you could write on it, but it won't be doing you a lick of good. It'll heal. The parts that you chop off will regrow, and the chopped off parts will become new trolls themselves!" he said with a shake of his head.

"You can kill them, though," Drizzt said, his head bowed and tucked back into his cloak. "Acid will harm them, and fire causes them to ignite like a torch."

"They are vulnerable to intense heat?" Orna seemed relieved. "That is good then. My brothers will be armed with weapons like mine. It should enable them to hold their own."

"Well, I hope those fancy wands of theirs have enough of a charge to take down everything they'll be up against. The Trolls will mass by the thousands when they smell food, and they'll never stop, not until either your friends get out, or they become the next meal."

The master Chief was left to wonder how such a species would be able to support itself in a biological ecosystem as they closed the remaining distance between themselves and the Dawn. Still, he knew how to kill them, and exactly what would be needed.

* * *

Mias growled, firing another shot from his rifle. It hit the targeted monstrosity dead in the face, destroying it and igniting its body like a torch. Rumbling in satisfaction, the Sangheili turned his attention back to his troops. They were spread out along a large hill top, covering every possible approach that the brutes might take. His mandibles flared inside of his helmet, and he looked at his ammo counter. Ten shots left in this cell. Three hundred in total. And out before them, for what seemed kilometers in every direction, were these… things.

Lotar and Denos both growled, before firing off a barrage of fuel rod bursts. The supersonic pulses of green energy erupted into a fiery holocaust as they hit the ground, taking out dozens of adversaries with every single shot. However, it would not be enough. These creatures had no fear, and, it seemed, no survival instinct. It was like they could tell that the task force was running low on munitions.

The commander's eyes fell on the vehicles that they had. Each Specter could maybe carry four, the Shadows a solid two dozen if they could cling to every possible spot. But what of the Lek'golo? What of the Unggoy? They would die. A snarl of rage was fighting its way up Mias's throat. He and the rest of his troops had fought their way through too much over the past few decades to die like this. He had not conquered Human shock troops, with all their clever tricks and traps, Brutes, with their overwhelming strength and endurance, and the ravenous parasites of the Rings to die like this.

The noise was so small at first that he didn't realize what it was, and chalked it up to being a bit of static caused by the surrounding plasma fire. Then it got louder, buzzing his command comm. system until he could no longer ignore it. Then there came a voice, a voice that Mias had heard before, but now, had never thought he'd hear again.

"Task force, do you copy, over?" It was the Arbiter. "Say again, Task Force, do you copy, please respond."

His mandibles spread wide for a moment, then he sent a few rounds down range as he opened up the response channel. "Arbiter, this is Task Force: Reclamation, Commander Mias Tarkimee speaking. We are pinned down and under heavy enemy assault. Requesting orders."

"Are you in a defensible position?" The Arbiter asked. Mias noted how calm his voice was, and found it reassuring.

"For the moment, yes, Arbiter, we are. Our ammo supplies are running dangerously low. They are insufficient to deal with the remaining hostile forces," Mias responded, then waited a tick, firing off two more rounds. Both were on target—not that it was easy to miss the rolling mass before them.

"What are the numbers of your forces?"

"Forty Sangheili, three hundred Unggoy, and two Lek'golo," Mias responded.

There was a brief moment of silence on the other end of the line. Then the response:  
"Understood. Tell you troops to hold their position. I will be enroute with reinforcements, supplies, and evacuation ships. In the mean time, turn on your comm. channels, it will make it easier to track you down."

"Understood, Arbiter." Mias said, and then, with rising elation, he turned on company wide channels. "Valiant soldiers of the Neo-Covenant, you have made me proud today!" His voice echoed in his own ears, as plasma fire streamed off the hilltop and cut down rank after rank of the advancing lines. "Some of you have served with me for more than thirty years, and we have fought through heretics, traitors, and stared down the agents of hell itself." There was a rumble of acknowledgment from all of his soldiers, and even some of the Unggoy pumped their fists and cheered. "But know, even now, that the Gods smile upon us. We have been found! The Arbiter himself comes to our aid, and will be along with more troops, fresh supplies, and a way out of this hellhole. In the meantime, though, he asks that we kindly hold the line. Would you be so honorable as to oblige him?"

A mixture of roars, grunts, and raucous laughter echoed in the channel, and Mias's mandibles flicked in the gesture of a Sangheili smile. He joined his troops in laughing in the face of death, before snapping off two more shots from his rifle.

* * *

As soon as the back of the Pelican opened up, the crew of the Dawn rushed out. Machinery came to life, securing the dropship and moving it into position to have its armaments changed. High explosive warheads were being replaced with incendiaries, while the Longsword was also prepped for launch. As the Faerunian natives hopped out of the craft, they stared around in wonder at the machinery that was moving by itself. The missiles that were being loaded and the four man crew that was rushing around like Ragnarok was upon them.

"Where are you headed?" The Dwarf King asked Commander Keyes as she bolted for the far end of the hangar.

"Weapons locker," she and the other three offworlders said at the same time.

The king of Clan Battlehammer looked to his companions and allies, before gesturing for his elite bodyguards to fall in behind him. They growled and did so, while Drizzt, Neeshka, and Wulfgar were all swift to join in.

It took them only a minute or two to make their way through the twisting corridors and maze like tunnels of the Dawn to reach the nearest weapons locker. Johnson, the Master Chief, and Orna were already inside, loading up a series of wheeled cart like mechanisms. Their jaws dropped and their eyes widened in disbelief as they saw the ordinance and firepower that was at their disposal. The Master Chief and Orna were lifting large, purple crates of something that none of them had seen before. They resembled little rectangular boxes, except that they pulsed with some inner blue light. They seemed to be inspecting, them, and then the two armored soldiers slammed the tops of the lids shut.

Johnson was loading his own, and they saw similar objects on his cart, except they glowed green, and seemed to be made of a series of oblong crystals. Then he brought forward a heavy tripod and the weapon that went on it, while slinging a strange, metal backpack on. Keyes was assisting, bringing out those fire grenades that they had, and hefting a large, ugly device that she quickly hooked up to the backpacks. Drizzt couldn't help but notice that right below a nozzle of some kind was the feral grin of a sharp toothed predator, and he found himself wondering what the device was.

Neeshka and the Drow exchanged glances with one another as crate after crate, box after box, of weaponry was loaded, finally, the Tiefling shook herself out of her stupor.

"What can we do to help?" she asked.

The others didn't even stop to look at her, but there was almost a simultaneous "load ordinance" from all four soldiers. There was a moment of pause, and then Bruenor stepped forward.

"Tell us what to carry."

"Plasma cells, Covenant weaponry," The Master Chief gestured to a series of crates over by the far end of the wall, "those phosphorus packs," he pointed to more of the backpack like devices, some of them nearly as massive as a full grown man, "and napalm grenades."

They didn't need to be told twice, and were soon swarming over the equipment, loading it up, helping to secure it, and then racing back out of the armory.

The whole process took about five minutes.

As soon as they were back out in the hangar, they loaded the equipment up on the Longsword, just as the second Pelican, remotely piloted by Cortana, flew back in. Once they were finished, everyone jumped up onboard, and headed back out. As the door shut, Orna once again opened up a line of contact with Mias.

"Commander, we are inbound, carrying troops, equipment, and power cells," The Sangheili looked to Keyes, who flashed him a series of fingers. "ETA is approximately ten minutes. Be advised, tell your troops to try and avoid panicking, the Demon is with us."

"I understand, Arbiter, Gods grant you speed in your travel, and in your sword arm." Mias growled in response.

"Orna, can you direct their chatter over our frequencies?" The Master Chief asked, as he hooked up the tubes to another of the strange, predator faced weapons. The Spartan then slung one of the enormous backpacks over his shoulders. "We need to get a good idea of what's going on down there."

"That is within my abilities." The Arbiter bobbed his head up and down, before fiddling with something on the side of his helmet.

The sounds of battle soon filtered in over the comm. Channel of the Pelican. The natives looked back and forth as they heard the sound of Covenant plasma fire crackling through the air, the harsh squeaks and grunts of the Unggoy, the biting commands of Sangheili, and the deep, rumbling roars of Lek'golo.

"What in the hells was that?" Wulfgar muttered, looking up at the Spartan a few feet away from him.

"Lek'golo," he responded. "We call them Hunters."

Wulfgar opened his mouth once again, but Johnson cut him off.

"It's a four ton walking monster that's an infantryman's worse nightmare come to life," he growled, affixing some napalm grenades to his harness. He realized that he was still drawing blank stares, and so he gave a disgruntled sigh. "Look." He glanced over at them. "Imagine, if you will, bunch of little worm like… things, working together. They all think with the same mind, but at the same time, they're separate from one another." They were nodding, and he supposed that on a world as whacked out as this one, that probably wasn't too out of place. "Now imagine that that group of slugs is wrapped up in a suit of armor that can take this Pelican's rail cannon straight the face and all it does is get mad, strong enough to knock tanks over, and faster than an world class sprinter." They couldn't see his face, but they noticed that a change had suddenly come over him. He seemed more subdued, weighted down again, like he had been at the village. "You never forget your first encounter with those demons."

"I do not follow you." Drizzt raised an eyebrow behind his cloak.

"He's not exaggerating," the Master Chief said, looking over towards the Dark Elf. "My group's first encounter with Hunters nearly got us killed. There were two of them, in a museum. We got the drop on them, but it didn't do us any good."

Blank stares met him. He sighed. "We were firing armor piercing rounds, they'd be able to go through about," he did some quick mental math, based off penetration capacity and thickness of armor, "a good dozen suits of plate mail and still retain lethal velocity. We put over a thousand rounds into these things, and nothing happened. Our weapons were completely combat ineffective. We had to shoot the floor out from underneath them."

"Oh, so that killed them?" Wulfgar asked.

"No. They fell three stories down, and then we dropped about sixty tons of rock on their heads. They were pinned, but still alive, and didn't seem to be terribly injured."

There was a collective gulping from the group.

" We're almost there, get ready!" Keyes shouted back. "Jesus," she muttered. "Does it always get this dark in this place?"

"It is said that the Trollmoors were cursed by the Gods long ago. Darkness comes early, no matter the season," Drizzt said. "Your… comrades… are sturdy if they have lasted this long against the forces that this land can throw at them."

"We are born fighters, Dark Elf," Orna replied, his grip on his plasma rifles tightening for just a moment. "Each of us has a long and noble history, with battle poems that speak of the deeds of our ancestors, going back dozens of generations. Well… most of us."

The Dark Elf looked at the Sangheili strangely, but whatever question he or any of the others might have had upon the tips of their tongues were cut off in the next moment, as the Pelican shuddered.

"Missile barrage," the Master Chief said. "Just opening up some holes in their ranks, and beating them back."

He slung one of the massive backpacks over his shoulder, and raised the nozzle like device before heading to the door of the drop ship. A couple of seconds later, it started to back up, and the door began to open. Darkness, seemingly unnatural, seeped into the holding area, devouring the red lighting of the craft's interior. If this bothered the cyborg at all, he didn't let show. He leapt twenty feet down onto the hill top.

Neeshka dashed to the loading ramp, making certain to grab some of the supplies they had brought. The sights and sounds of the battle washed over her in the next instant, and she found herself overwhelmed by all of it. There were hundreds of little creatures, barely larger than a Dwarf, scrambling about, firing strange wands into the ranks of their foes. Others manned large tripodal weapons. Commanding them were dozens of Sangheili, who screaming in a harsh, unknown tongue that seemed to be one of defiance, as they used their much larger weapons to beat back the Troll horde.

And what a horde it was. As the Tiefling leapt down onto the ground, she could see it stretching out for what seemed to be miles in every direction. She had never seen so many of the beasts, had no idea that there were even that many alive.

"One moment," she heard the voice of Cortana through her armor's radio. "Calibrating and adjusting translation software."

Suddenly, she could hear what the creatures were saying, and it made the strange dichotomy of order within chaos all the more palpable.

"Power cells running low, need reload!" once of the smaller ones barked.

"Cleansing flame!" bellowed one of the larger Sangheili, right before activating one of those strange blast globes. It glowed blue, driving back the darkness of the moors, and then the creature hurled it. It sailed out into the ranks of the monsters, and vaporized a number of them.

"More fire needed here!" another smaller one squealed.

Then came a voice that rumbled through her bones. Deep and powerful, like the voice of a Balor demon, it echoed hauntingly over her radio.

"Moving to assist the Unggoy."

The darkness itself moved then. Bruenor, his Dwarves, and the others were momentarily struck dumb, and Neeshka herself wondered how she had missed such a behemoth. It was twelve feet tall, easily, covered from head to toe in black armor that would have made a Silverymoon knight jealous. Its left hand carried a massive, tower shield like hunk of metal, while the right one had a tubular device grafted into it. A series of eight curving spikes that looked wickedly sharp protruded from its 'spine', and they waved back and forth menacingly as it quickly crossed from one side of the hilltop to the other. It stopped just a few feet behind the Unggoy, and leveled its right arm.

There was a flash of green light, and Neeshka saw a blob of energy fly off into the darkness. It crossed the half mile distance in less than a second, and exploded. A white hot flash nearly blinded her sensitive eyes, and when it cleared, there was an area of the horde where nothing existed anymore. Nothing, but a glowing crater, forty feet wide. Every Troll within double that distance was a burning effigy. They flailed about, screaming and howling, but they managed to do nothing more than set their comrades aflame.

"That is a Hunter," she heard Orna's voice in her ear. "Now that you've seen one, please assist with the rearmament."

Neeshka snapped out of her trance, and looked around to assess the situation. Orna, Johnson, and Keyes were busy bringing along those strange crates, and the Master Chief was spraying down the Trolls with some kind of white flame, burning them to ash.

"Bruenor, get those plasma cannons over to the northeast corner!" Keyes shouted. "Drizzt, Wulfgar, help me distribute plasma cells. Neeskha, I need you to start passing out grenades."

"Understood," the agent responded, before heading over to the nearest group that she could see. It was a squad of some twenty Unggoy, all of them being held together under the command of another of their kind. This one was larger, covered in heavy white armor, and carrying a weapon larger than itself.

"Keep the pressure on them, don't let up!" it shouted. It noticed her as she drew up, and for a second, its eyes settled on her tail and it cocked its head to one side.

She knew that it wouldn't be able to understand her, so she just passed out a small box of' grenades.'

"Ahh, thank you," it said, sounding surprisingly polite, for something that she knew would have few qualms about munching on her flesh. "Soldiers, grab grenades and prepare for a volley. Zebos, you and the others focus your cannon fire just a little further out for the moment. "

The addressed soldiers growled in affirmative, before adjusting their angle of attack. The others swarmed over the box of grenades and picked it clean. Not knowing what else to do, Neeshka set another one down, and started to move on.

The resulting detonation of the grenades shook the earth itself.

"We have a surge in the western slopes, requesting close range support!"

Neeshka peered around to see that there was a pair of Sangheili warriors there. They were different from their fellows, wearing black armor that made them almost impossible to see, were it not for the flashes of their weapons. Bruenor was up beside them, as well as Drizzt, and they seemed to be trying to hook up one of the large pulsing crates to the tripod type weapons. There was a massive number of Trolls that were attempting to rush the position, though. The ground rumbled, and another of the Hunters came into position. The massive creature gave out a roar that shook the very air around them, and Neeshka found herself grateful this thing was on her side.

It pointed its weapon down towards the rushing tide of green, and greenish blue 'flames' seemed to leap from its weapon. The first Trolls in its bath were burned to dust in an instant, and anything near it exploded into flame. Even the marsh grass, sodden by perpetual dampness and never ending rain, exploded, and the puddles of damp rainwater became steam.

"Moradin's arse!" Bruenor screamed. "I gotta get me one o' those. Be great the next time the goblins decide to pay us a visit."

The Hunter seemed to stare at the Dwarf King for a moment or two, and then shook his head.

Neeshka kept an eye on them as she delivered another batch of grenades to the Unggoy. She passed Sergeant Johnson who was using a weapon similar to the Master Chief, spitting out blast after blast of white hot fire.

"Come on, you ugly little…" He trailed off, and she could imagine his hidden face twisted into a snarl.

Then she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. The Trolls were trying a new tactic, one that involved slinging up large numbers of their own troops onto the hill itself. Rather ingenious of them. However, most of the beasts were cut down before they could get close enough to become a threat. They fell to the ground as little more than charred husks. The ones that were hurled at the Hunters, though, got a different treatment. The Hunter near Drizzt and Bruenor shifted far faster than a creature of its size should have been able to, and cocked its massive shield back.

The Troll that sailed in got backhanded by the massive hunk of metal. The Teifling watched, amazed, as the four hundred pound monster went sailing back out into the night. Her enhanced vision picked up its broken corpse smashing into the ranks of its fellows, nearly one hundred and fifty feet away. She couldn't help but gulp at this, but reminded herself that there was more that needed to be done.

All the while, Orna spoke with Mias.

"Your timing is excellent as always, Arbiter." The commander saluted the other Sangheili as he spoke.

"What sort of a soldier would I be if I did not rush to the aid of my brothers?" Orna cocked his head to one side. "An Arbiter's life is sacrifice, after all."

Mias shook his head. "We need to begin evacuation. Even with these supplies, I think it's only a matter of time before they run us dry." Even as he spoke, Denos fired off a barrage of assault cannon blasts into the ranks of the enemy.

Hundreds of Trolls were consumed in the fury of the plasma attack. But still they pressed on, roaring and growling in the night.

"Listen up, everyone," Mias growled through the commline, "We are commencing evacuation. Wounded take priority, and after that we're going to start shifting out of here starting with C-company. Am I understood? This is going to be an orderly withdrawal. The first trooper I see try to break ranks is going to be the last one to get out of here. Understood?"

Another chorus of Yes-sirs came from the ranks, and Mias nodded his head approvingly. "Very good," he said.

And then it began. It was just as the Sangheili commander ordered. Everything was done in an orderly, precise manner. The Unggoy loaded up their wounded numbers, and then the designated company began to shift up onto the hovering Pelicans and the Longsword. As they moved out, others shifted in, holstering their pistols and taking over the manning of plasma cannons and fuel rod guns.

"A very disciplined lot," Orna observed, drawing his rifles and heading for the fray.

"I've managed this company for years, Arbiter, they don't break and run." Mias joined him, leveling his long-armed rifle and spitting a trio of plasma bursts downrange. "Burn, you miserable little abominations…. Burn."

Neeshka rushed about, finishing up her delivers just as the Pelicans were departing. Then the Teifling fumbled around, not really sure of what to do. This wasn't like her fights with Kale. What use was a blade against a horde like this? What good could she do? Out of instinct, she headed over towards where Johnson and the Master Chief were. The two of them had moved closer together to help cover the southern portion of the hilltop. Their twin streams of white hot fire reached out and touched the Trolls, the grass, the murky mud of the ground, and set it to fire.

"What do you need me to do?" she asked, hoping that she wasn't distracting them.

The Master Chief spared her a glance, and then motioned over to a plasma cannon that was being manned by a wounded grunt. "Round up someone else, Bruenor or Drizzt, and keep that cannon going."

"How exactly do we do that?" The Dark Elf asked as he drew near.

"Drizzt, move the green knob on the left side, about six inches out from the handles, that'll adjust the weapon to your height," the Master Chief said, gesturing to the general area before turning his flamethrower back onto the horde. "Neeshka, monitor the heat index bar on the right side. When it starts turning red, tell Drizzt to let the gun rest for a few moments. He doesn't have a link index, so he won't be able to do it himself."

"Where are the… trigger mechanisms?" the Drow asked as he got the weapon centered with himself, and noticed that there were a strange series of lights that sprang up and floated just above the metal of the barrel, in-between what appeared to be some sort of metal sighting devices.

"The two handles on the back of the cannon. Squeeze those to fire weapon," the Spartan said, shooting a blast of phosphorus based flame down into the swamp below. A score of Trolls were ignited, and howled as they fell apart and burned to ash. More rose to take their place however, and the Spartan found himself growing irritated.

Still, at least they were not Flood. Just like Mendez said, things could always be worse.

The Pelicans and the Longsword took off just as Drizzt began to open fire. He didn't hold the weapon tightly enough however, and it nearly kicked out of his control.

"Hold it more firmly. We need that thing in action." John tried to remain patient, reminding himself that they had likely never even seen anything remotely like a plasma cannon before, let along fired one. "Cortana, how are we doing on evac?"

"ETA to return is about twenty minutes. We can get about a hundred Unggoy on that run, with them packed in here butt to gut. Probably going to take three trips to pull this whole thing off…" she trailed off, leaving them with the obvious problem of force management.

As the Covenant task force was pulled out, the manpower necessary to man the weaponry here would diminish significantly, leaving them with the increasing probability of the Trolls throwing enough bodies at them to swamp the position. And there was one other problem.

"Orna, what's the situation with the Shadows? They're too large to properly attach to the Pelican's magnetic grapples."

Over on the northern end of the battlefield, there was a moment of pause. The Arbiter noticed that Mias had twisted his head in a strange manner, one of confusion. It occurred to him then, that no one here even knew who he was. Truth had done a magnificent job of purging him from the records of the Covenant after the Master Chief destroyed the fourth Halo.

"I am uncertain. Commander, they are your vehicles, what do you want done with them?" the Arbiter asked, as he slipped new cells into his plasma rifles and took aim once more, swiftly sending a hail of blue plasma fire down range.

"I'd like to salvage them if it is at all possible, Arbiter. We have few vehicles, and every one will be vital, I feel," the Commander responded without bothering to look up. He kept his eye on the enemy.

"Cortana," it was Keyes. "Where are with in this muckball? How hard would it be to try and rush the vehicles past the Trolls?"

"The UAV that I dispatched indicates that the Troll ranks thin out about a klick and a half away from your position. The Trollmoors end about twenty four kilometers to the south east. If my understanding of the texts is correct, once you pass that, the Trolls won't follow. They don't like being outside of familiar territory."

"Ma'am, we could use the Pelicans and the Longsword to assist with opening up a hole in their ranks, while the Shadows and Specters are manned and make a break for it," the Master Chief said, monitoring the level of his backpack. Still enough pressurized phosphorus to keep him good till the next round of evacuations.

"It's risky, but the Commander is correct. We're going to need those vehicles, especially if we're going to be dealing with Luskan and the Drow."

"Who and the what?" It was a voice that the Master Chief recognized: N'Tho. So, those two were here as well.

"Long story, we'll fill you in once we're out of this mess," Cortana responded.

The next few minutes seemed like hours to most of the people down there, but it was filled with its interesting moments.

Bruenor kept distributing power cells to the different soldiers when heard them say that they were needed. To him, these 'Covenant' forces were a strange thing, something never before seen in his two centuries of life. They looked like demons, but they found with organization far and above anything he'd seen. They constantly communicated through their 'radios,' calling out when a side was being threatened, or when their munitions were reaching the point of exhaustion. None of them seemed to panic, and indeed, the Hunters seemed to be reciting some manner of battle poetry as they blasted and incinerated their foes.

At the same time, he could not forget the quiet rage and cold anger in the voice of Sergeant Johnson as he'd spoke of the horrors that he'd witnessed at the hands of the very creatures that he was helping to save. It just seemed so, surreal, to the Dwarf King. He'd faced creatures that indulged in torture and cannibalism before. They were weak, cowardly things, usually. Goblins, Orcs, Ogres, and Gnolls. They fought that which they could overpower, their through brute force or sheer numbers. They did not fight when they were outnumber hundreds… thousands to one. They did not recite poems of the deeds of their forefathers, did not tell their comrades to keep coming, or joke that this was nothing compared to battles past.

They were savage, yet courageous and noble all in one. To a degree, it fascinated him.

What the Dwarf King didn't know was that he was also the subject of much thought among the offworlders. The Unggoy in particular were fascinated by these short bearded 'humans.'

Gazap kept moving around the hilltop, offering encouragement to his troops and using his fuel rod cannon to devastating effect. However, when he could, he took a moment stare at the newcomers that the Arbiter had brought with him. The small ones fascinated him. Was this some manner of Unggoy equivalent among the Humans? Something they'd never seen before? It didn't seem terribly likely, given that they were running around with bladed weapons that had fell out of use among the various Covenant sub-races thousands of years ago. But, if that were the case, where did they come from? Were they native to this world? He frowned behind his methane rebreather unit. The odds of such an occurrence were highly unlikely. He would have to question them later, though probably by some manner of proxy. The Arbiter seemed to know their language well enough, judging by how he and the others seemed to be ordering them around.

"Need heavy fire support!" one of his troopers cried over the comm. networks.

"En-route," Gazap grunted, hefting the massive cannon and dashing over to the eastern slopes. A barrage of green plasma left the cannon, before smashing down into the depths of the enemy.

"Ancestors have mercy, I doubt even the parasite was this persistent…" he grumbled as he saw even more coming.

On the other side, Drizzt shuddered involuntarily as he unleashed another barrage of the strange spell-fire from the weapon he was manning. It never seemed to run out of charges, and could blast anything in its path to pieces with trivial ease. The screams of the Trolls reached his tapered ears, and another shudder worked its way through him. That could just as easily be him down there. If his fellow Drow tried to invade, it would be their screams as these weapons burned them to ash.

From an elevated position, with equipment like this, one man could slay thousands without effort—one man who'd only been taught how to use the weapon five minutes previously.

Drizzt had spent the first three decades of his life learning nothing but the way of the sword, how to thrust, slice, and parry with the best of them. He'd reached the point where he had even been superior to his father, Zaknafein. With a weapon like this, even a child could cut him down.

A chord was struck deep within the Drow's heart. If weaponry like this took hold in this world, he would go the way of the stone axe and bronze spear. He would become obsolete, his sword mastery good for little more than showing off at some nobleman's ball.

He had to resist the urge to unsheathe Twinkle and try to slice the contraption in half. What sort of barbarism and bloodshed would a weapon like this bring to his world?

"Um, Master Chief?" Neeshka's voice shook him out of his thoughts.

"Yes?" the green armored giant responded as he torched a group of Trolls.

"I think that the power cell, thing, is getting low on charges," the Tiefling said as her tail started to twitch back and forth in agitation.

"Go get another cell, and I'll walk you through the reloading process," he said.

Neeshka was gone and back in a flash, holding one of the crates in her hands. It reminded Drizzt of the little cages that he'd once seen chickens being put into. Size was about right, at any rate. She placed it down next to the one that was being used, and waited for the Spartan to give her further instructions. The Master Chief paced over behind them, and sent a few more fire blasts downrange once he'd gotten back into a clear field of fire. Once there, he took a moment to stare at the readout. The weapon had about a hundred shots left before the cell was depleted.

"You've got enough shots left for about thirty seconds of burst fire. Go ahead and use it up before we switch over to the new one." He told them.

Drizzt complied with the order, but the Spartan noticed that he seemed uncomfortable with his job. He'd have to question the Drow later, see what was wrong. It was highly probable that Drizzt would be required to operate another firearm before this mess was over and done with, and he didn't need a gunshy individual operating heavy equipment.

Once the cannon's power cell was drained, he moved into action. Keeping the Trolls at bay would be harder now, without the aid of the weapon.

"Disconnect the power coupling, the rope-like device," he said, burning another Troll as it came sailing in through the air. Its corpse was little more than a lump of charcoal when it hit the ground.

"Alright."

"Next, take the coupling from the new cell, and hook it up. Once you've done that, flip the switch on the side of the cell, and you should get a confirmation signal telling you the cannon is prepped." He blasted another group of the monsters as they made the mistake of clustering together to try and charge him.

Neeshka did as instructed, and sure enough, there was a loud beeping noise, and then reading on the side of the plasma cannon indicated that it was back at full charge: nearly twenty five thousand shots.

"Good to go, resume firing!" the Spartan ordered.

A hail of blue energy bolts lanced downrange in compliance with the cyborg, joined a moment later by yet another stream of white phosphorus based fire.

* * *

It had taken almost an hour to get everyone loaded up and on their way out. Now, only a dozen Sangheili, the Arbiter, Johnson, the Master Chief, and the two Lek'golo remained on the ground. The Longsword and the Pelicans were busy blasting the Troll horde with incendiary missile fire, enveloping them in massive fireballs to clear the path.

"Assume positions!" Mias barked, priming the heavy plasma cannon on the back of a Shadow.

The Hunters boarded the Shadows, leaping up onto the spines of the large transports and readying their weaponry. The Master Chief and Sergeant Johnson boarded a Specter, each taking a seat on the opposite wing. Both had restocked their flamethrowers, and were ready to burn anything that tried to get near their little convoy. Orna, meanwhile, leapt into the pilot seat of the other Specter, his mandibles twitching.

The Trolls seemed to be able to sense that their last chance at a meal was making a break for it, and surged forward with renewed vigor. However, it was to be in vain, as weapons fire erupted from the convoy and the ships. Other Sangheili and Unggoy also kept up the pressure, firing out of the open hatches of the Pelicans and the Longsword.

With a single signal from Mias, they shot off down the hill, over a path of broken and charred bodies.

They were still far from out of this, though.

* * *

&

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And there's chapter thirteen. Hope it wasn't too bad, and that you all found it enjoyable. As before, I'm working on the finishing touches to chapter 14 now, so it should be up within just a few days. Hopefully, this will compensate for the long update times up to this point.

As always, feedback is appreciated, but not required. Ideas, thoughts, consturctive criticisms especially, are all welcomed. If you want to ask a question, and don't have an account here, leave me an e-mail address and I'll get back with you ASAP.

Until next time, I wish you all the best of luck. Stay safe.


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Revelations One

Hello again everyone. Told you I would have this one up soon... and for once, I am actually on schedule...

(Rumbling is heard as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse charge pass)

Oh dear... well, that can't be good. I'll make this quick then, seeing as how I may have just triggered the end of the world.

As always, many thanks to everyone who's taken a gander at the story. I hope it's been worth your time and effort, and it's not a complete wreck. I'm going into deeper water here, with a major change up for one of the characters. I hope it's not too objectionable.

Note to Gray Wolf (sorry, it's not letting me PM you for some reason): The story won't go on quite long enough for those to become factors, sorry.

Obligatory disclaimer: I own nothing but the products of my demented imagination, you bloodsuckers! Besides, I'm up to my eyeballs in student loans as it is, how much money are you going to recover if I dare to claim ownership? You'll rack up more in court fees and lawyer bills than you could possibly squeeze from me! (insert maniacal laughter).

That out of the way, hope you enjoy the chapter. Musical influence for this one comes from Halo 2 itself: The Last Spartan.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen- Revelations One**

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* * *

  
**

The Master Chief fired one more burst of white hot fire into the depths of the Trollmoors, and then they passed by into the safety of the forest that surrounded the place. His enhanced vision caught a few glimpses of them slipping back into the depths of the swamp, and he nodded in satisfaction. He still kept his weapon trained upon the surroundings, just in case something nasty should come their way, but for the most part, it seemed as though the operation was over and done with.

Well, at least the combat portion of it. The Troll horde had required several weaves and twists to successfully penetrate and evade, and now they were near a town that Drizzt and Bruenor had told them was called Neseme. The brief bit of chatter that the Spartan had heard in the frantic rush to get out of range of their foes had left him feeling that the locals would be standoffish at best. He wasn't certain how well they would react to the likes of Orna and his comrades, and they would be unable to get the Shadows back to the Dawn by anything other than a straight run.

The good news was that thanks to the terrain and the fusion cells in the Covenant vehicles, they could make the trip in just a few hours. The bad news was that there wasn't much that could be done to hide them.

"Are you certain that only Bruenor is going to be able to help us out here?" Commander Keyes asked over the comm. channels.

"The last time that we came in close to Neseme, my heritage forced us to slog through the moors. I don't think such an experience would be appreciated by your… allies, after what they just went through," Drizzt remarked.

"It's the same with me," Neeshka said. "A Tiefling is more likely to send the Riders on the defensive, and they're the kind of people who… oh, what was the phrase that you guys used… kill first, ask questions second?"

"They'll listen to me, though," Bruenor growled. "The Halls of me father's fathers had a nice, rich contract with them. With all the fighting that they do, the Neseme Riders couldn't get enough of our mithril weaponry."

With that, the Dwarven King hopped out of the back of the Pelican that he was in, and clambered into the troop transport department of the lead Shadow. He was followed by a number of his body guards.

"While we run these back, Commander, I would like to ask that you use your dropships and your fighter to run back to our ship and retrieve supplies." Commander Mias said. "We have a number of useful weapons, supplies, and generators that survived the crash that may prove useful to our mutual survival."

"With pleasure," Keyes responded. "It'll give me time to bring you up to speed on the events that are transpiring here."

"Heed her words well, Commander," the Arbiter spoke. "She's done much to help establish alliances with the natives, and there is something coming that is bigger than all of us."

"As you command, Arbiter," Mias said.

With that, the two parties separated. The ships shot off into the sky, leaving double shockwaves behind them as they accelerated to atmospheric cruising speeds. The vehicles also headed off, although they were moving considerably slower.

* * *

It was not long before what Drizzt feared had come to pass. The UAV that was traveling with the convoy detected an approaching patrol on the road ahead. The Sangheili and the Leg'Kolo tensed, the former carefully fingering weapons, while the latter's many worms rumbled.

John found himself reminded of a quintessential prisoners' dilemma. However, with any luck, Bruenor could act as an intermediary, and keep things from getting too heated. Still, he kept his finger on the trigger of his flamethrower. It wouldn't do to kill the natives, but he could still spook them if he needed to. The cyborg stared over towards Sergeant Johnson, who similarly raised and patted the projector for his slightly smaller weapon.

Then the small convoy crested a hill. Down below them, riding up the path that bordered the swamplands was a group of some three dozen odd riders, a little more than half a kilometer off. The Spartan zoomed his visor in, reading the details and expressions of every man in the group. They were squinting, and some of them were shouting. It was clear that they could see the Covenant vehicles. The question remained, however, as to what exactly the ultimate reaction would be.

"They've spotted us," he said, staring hard at them and pulling the magnification back just a bit. They were signaling and shouting to each other by the looks of it, and some were going for bows, while others were drawing axes and melee weaponry.

The Spartan hopped off the side of the Specter that he was sitting on. It would likely be better if they met the more human-like members of the group first, along with Bruenor, to ease them into the situation before them. Around him, he could hear the faint clicking of the mandibles of the Sangheili. They were agitated, still shaking off the adrenaline of their last battle. N'Tho and Usze seemed to be intent on seeking out some manner of cover as demanded by their Ranger training, but there was none to be found. The two black armored soldiers growled softly and their fingers tapped against the tactical foregrips and barrels of their rifles as they awaited the inevitable confrontation.

Johnson joined the Chief, and kept his flamethrower pointed towards the ground, though he kept his helmet on. The Master Chief nodded in approval. No sense giving a foe a free target if you could help it.

The cyborg focused his attention back on the Neseme Riders. They were within two hundred meters now, and would be upon them in seconds.

As they drew nearer, he could see the looks of shock on their faces, but he noticed, not one man seemed afraid, or at least not overtly so. It seemed somewhat logical, given the hazardous nature of their jobs, courage and steadfastness would be a prerequisite for joining the ranks of the riders. However, their lack of subtly and the fact that they were taking no care around a completely unknown force bothered him.

There was a reason that back on Earth, blind rushes had become obsolete as soon as machine guns had appeared. They paused some thirty yards away, and bows were trained upon the group by those who had them. Bruenor, unphased by this display of force, calmly stepped forward and placed the butt end of his axe into the ground and then casually leaning upon it.

"Top of the morning to you, Riders of Neseme," the Dwarven king said with a smile in his voice. "How are things in your town?"

"What business have you here, Dwarf, and what manner of things are these creatures?" a rider spoke, stepping forward just slightly.

The Master Chief stared at the man, deducing that he was the leader of the group. Where most of the others wore heavy chain mail, this man was clad in a full breastplate and partial plate armor in addition to mail and coifs of the others. The silvery glint of the metal, brighter than the steel of his fellows, indicated to the Spartan that it was also of that mithril material that several of Neverwinter's elite guard had had. He also carried a heavy riding war axe, reminiscent of something the Vikings often used on his own world.

"I resent that statement," Johnson muttered, crossing his arms above his armored chest. "I am as human as the next man."

The statement seemed to catch the rider off guard slightly, and his brown eyes narrowed. He pressed his heels into his horse, and the animal advanced towards the group with a soft snort.

"Then you make curious company…" he growled. "I won't ask again: who are you, and what is your purpose here?"

"King Bruenor of Clan Battle-Hammer," Bruenor said. If he was put off by the rider's tone, he didn't let it show. "Passing through back on the way to the stronghold of me people. Why, is there a tax we must pay these days?"

The rider, to his credit, kept calm and cool in the knowledge that he was addressing royalty. He looked down at the red bearded Dwarf, and his brows furrowed.

"Well then, my lord, would you mind explaining to us the presence of these… things." He swept his axe towards the Specters and the Shadows, and to the Covenant forces that were manning them.

"Those fellows?" Bruenor gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. "Friends of the clan. They were in a bit of spot, their Spell Jammer crashed down right in the middle of the moors, and they've spent the past four days fighting their way out."

The man's eyebrows shot up at this. The Master Chief cocked his head to one side. Curious, so these people considered that worthy of respect? Or was it fear that he saw forming in the eyes of the soldier?

"No small feat. The Evermoors are quick to ensnare, slow to let go of their prey." His eyes drifted from the king and his bodyguard over to the Master Chief. "But what manner of beings are they? I've never seen such demons, and I do not wish to have them anywhere near my town."

"Aliens… not demons," John said. "Soldiers from a race far from your world."

"Aliens?" The rider stumbled over the unfamiliar word, which did not exist in his native tongue.

"Think of them as extra-planar beings, like the Githyanki," Bruenor said. "But, lads, if you don't mind, we're in a bit of a hurry, and the fellows could use a bit of rest. We'll just be on our way."

"You've yet to prove that they're not a threat to Neseme, and until that happens, no one's going anywhere." The rider brandished his axe.

Very loyal, very true to his duty. The Master Chief admired that. Still, they needed to move, and he was unsure of how to prove that Orna and his comrades were not a threat. Somehow, a weapons display didn't seem the ideal means of showing non-hostile intentions. He frowned behind his helmet, and were it not there, might have reached up and scratched his chin.

"You have our word that we mean no harm to your small city."

The voice was Orna Fullsamee, advancing towards the meeting. Flanking him was Mias Tharkimee, and one of the Hunters. The Elite commander had removed his helmet, allowing his face to be visible for the first time. John noticed a series of crisscrossing scars across the top of his reptilian head. It was as if someone had taken a grid like section of hot wiring and burned a mark into him. The Arbiter had both his swords and his rifles tucked away in his belt, as did Mias but the Hunter was alert, and hunched down in its 'combat mode' with the interlocking plates of its enormous armor covering the multitude of worms that made it up.

The lead rider recoiled slightly at the sight of the Sangheili commander's face.

"What in the hell… What are you?" the man asked.

"As a species, we are called Sangheili," Orna said. "As a collective, we are the Covenant."

"And why should I trust your word, Sangheili?" Again, the man stumbled over the unknown word. The Master Chief heard a buzz in his comm. channels, it was Cortana.

"Just a second, Orna, I'm uploading a translation program into the network of your comrade's armor suits. They won't be able to speak their language yet, but you can at least understand what is going on. Tell him to stick his helmet back on."

Orna dutifully relayed the command, before turning back to face the lead rider.

"Because as the Arbiter of our kind, I am sworn to the pursuit of truth and honor, that I might due justice to the memories of my ancestors, and not be ashamed when my battle poem is interwoven with theirs." Orna crossed an arm across his chest. "As such, upon my word and my life, I swear we shall bring no harm to your town or your people."

There was a pained look on the Arbiter's face, and the Master Chief found himself puzzled by it. He watched Orna carefully, noting every mandible twitch, every tensing of a facial muscle. Something was bothering the soldier, something that seemed to be hurting him far deeper than a physical wound. The Spartan logged that knowledge away in the back of his mind, reminding himself to bring it to the Arbiter's attention later. He would need for everyone to be at top combat potential, and no impediments could be allowed.

The Neseme rider, however, still appeared to be somewhat unsure, and on a certain level, the Master Chief could empathize. As a soldier it was his duty to protect his hometown, and here was a group of individuals who he'd never seen before, and probably bore a great deal if resemblance to what the man hunted for a living. It would be difficult to win him over. Hopefully, Bruenor could make it through to him.

"Look, lad," the Dwarf spoke up. "There's a bit of a situation going on here on Faerun at the moment. Dark forces are massing, that are sooner than later likely to have a go at your town, and these fellows here can through a lot of muscle around in a fight."

The rider's expression softened slightly, and he appeared to be contemplating his next move carefully.

"Look," Bruenor said with an air of finality. "Mithril Hall just got overrun by the Drow a couple of weeks ago. These soldiers have agreed to help try and liberate the place. The sooner they gear up, the sooner we get the control of the Hall back." He let the sentence hang for a second or two. "And lest you forget, if we don't control that Hall, you won't be getting nothing for weapons and armor."

The master Chief smiled behind his visor. A brilliant ploy and expert tactical maneuvering on Bruenor's part, he'd appealed to the man's emotions, his sense of honor, and driven the point home by explaining the gravity of the situation should Mithril Hall remain in enemy hands.

The Master Chief wasn't certain how Mias and the others would react to being volunteered like they'd just been, but he had little doubt that Orna would be able to convince them that the cause was in their best interest. The Sangheili were no fools. They'd know that allies would be necessary to survive on this strange and unknown world. And helping to free ancestral hall of Clan Battlehammer would go quite a ways in securing those allies.

"Very well," the rider spoke at last, and moved out of the way.

"Many thanks, lad," Bruenor said with a chuckle and tip of his battle helm. Then he turned and rushed off towards the Shadows. Orna radioed for the troops to advance to their position to speed things up, and within minutes, they were loaded again and on their way.

"If the Drow are massing an army for a surface attack, then taking back the hall probably won't stop them. Do you have a contingency plan in the event of a counter offensive?" the Master Chief asked Bruenor as the ships moved along.

The Dwarven king was still getting used to the radio that was in his ear, but he caught on fast enough.

"We know those tunnels like the backs of our hands. We just didn't have a large enough garrison there." The Dwarf's voice ended in a vicious growl. "With your help, we'll drive them back, and then I intend to make that place impregnable. None of those dark eared dogs are going to be soiling the halls of my fathers while I still draw breath!"

"We're going to need plans of the place if you want us to help," Johnson spoke up, his flamethrower nozzle braced against his knee.

"We've got some maps of the place, don't you worry about that," Bruenor said.

"Before we assault anything, though, I need to bring my brothers up to speed on the situation. Many of them will also need to be instructed on the use of UNSC vehicles," Orna spoke up. "And there are things need to tell them of that do not concern this world…"

The Master Chief cocked his head to one side, curious about the sudden sagely tone that had crept into the Arbiter's voice. He supposed he would find out soon enough.

* * *

The rest of the trip back proved uneventful, and within a few hours, they were back inside the Dawn's hangar. Orna was swift to round up Mias and the other Sangheili that were not rushing back to the downed ship for supplies, along with Lotar, Denos, and Gazap. Once that was accomplished, they went into a nearby weapons locker, the closest thing to privacy at the moment. With his mandibles twitching, the Arbiter turned to face them.

"Brothers, it warms my heart to finally see more of our kind here, and to know that even in the wake of all our trials, our Covenant still holds true." Orna dipped his head slightly.

"Even if the promise of salvation has proven false, our honor still binds us. We are proud to serve alongside your kind," Lotar and Denos rumbled together, their deep voices vibrating the very room.

"The Lek'golo speak the truth," Mias said. "United together, even as battered as we are, we are still strong, and the Brutes will never find us such easy prey."

"True," Orna held up a hand to signal silence for a moment, and then bowed his head. "However, as we were preparing to fire the ring and destroy the parasite… I learned a most terrible revelation." He paused for a moment, thinking of how best to phrase what would come next. "What the Oracle told us on the Delta Halo, about the Forerunners, is not entirely accurate. There were some Forerunners who survived by hiding away on the Ark and various 'Shield Worlds'."

Murmurs shot up immediately, but Orna held up his hand and bid silence once more. "The knowledge is bittersweet, my brothers. For while they survived, they were returned to a reality where their society was gone. In just a few generations, all their knowledge was lost. They were left to wander, ignorant of their heritage, until they finally began to build themselves back up again."

"Where are they?" N'Tho asked. "What happened to them?"

"They began to wander the stars again after a time... and they called themselves by a new name: Humanity." He closed his eyes.

The room was quiet except for the soft hissing of Gazap's methane rebreather unit. Glances were being shared, and Orna saw confusion, disbelief, denial.

"Arbiter, if this is your idea of a joke, I am not amused," Mias spoke, twisting his head to cast a golden eye upon the Arbiter.

"It is no joke, I am afraid," he shook his head. "Even as we revered the Forerunners as gods, we slaughtered their children in the name of the Great Journey." Orna felt the despair in his heart being replaced by rage as he came to the next part. "I wonder how we could have been so blind. The Sentinels, the Oracles, the way they referred to the Humans as Reclaimers, the way they would devote their forces to protecting the Humans above all else… the reason that only the Humans could activate a ring… all the signs were there."

He could feel the rage building in his brethren, hatred towards themselves and their own ineptitude. Now came the final note in the symphony.

"And worst of all, from what Sergeant Johnson spoke of during his brief captivity, Truth and the other Prophets knew… they knew what the Humans were, and ordered their destruction out of fear of losing their power should their heritage be revealed."

There was silence once again, but he could see the fingers of his fellow Sangheili twitching, while Gazap blinked on in disbelief, and the two Lek'golo growled ominously.

"You mean to tell me that the Prophets knew all along were we butchering Forerunners?" Mias growled. His voice seemed calm, but there was a deadly undertone to it, threatening to boil over at any given moment.

Orna merely nodded.

The Sangheili commander began to pace back and forth, his breath coming in deep, angry growls. Murmurs among the ranks filtered up, and Orna heard promises of vengeance, retribution, and war.

"There is still a chance we may yet redeem our sullied honor, Mias," the Arbiter said, stepping towards him and placing a hand upon his shoulder. "As you saw, there are Humans native to this world. There are dark forces mustering to enslave them and everything else here. As well as petty opportunists who would sell out their own kind for the sake of getting a little further ahead in the game of life."

The other Sangheili clamped his mandibles together, and his face became like a mask of steel.

"Then we shall repel the fiends, and defend the Humans here, even at the cost of our own lives, if need be," the commander's four fingered hand curled into a fist that was shaking violently. "We will not be remembered in our family's battle poems as the ones who brought shame to our bloodlines by slaughtering the very ones we worshiped!"

A cacophony of roars met his statement as the other Elites spread their jaws wide and screamed out their rage. Orna nodded softly.

"Indeed we shall. But battle must wait," he placed his hand on the commander's shoulder again. "Come. Let us prepare the equipment that we have salvaged."

* * *

"Well, that was certainly enough excitement for one day," Wulfgar muttered, helping to stash a box of plasma cells. He reached up and wiped some of the sweat from his brow.

"No kidding," Johnson muttered off to the side, where he and the Master Chief were busy stabilizing a small fusion reactor that would recharge the cells in-between battles. Still left to be done was the large reactor core of the Covenant ship, which was to be plugged into the Dawn to supplement her own reactor.

"I'm going to need a week to get the stench of Troll out of my clothes," Neeshka muttered, staring at a box of needler clips. The purple oval fascinated her, as she hadn't seen the weapons in action during their battle. "Do you guys need me to help with anything else?"

"Not as of right now, no," the Master Chief said as he finished bolting the reactor to the floor, and flipped the switch. The reactor came on, and status readouts indicated that everything was green.

"Well, if that be the case, do you mind if your little… computer… can show us to the nearest bunks?" the one of Bruenor's bodyguards, Mortar, if the Master Chief remembered correctly, asked.

"Be glad to," the A.I. responded, and a door opened to the front of the room. "Right this way."

"I think we'll be joining her, if you don't mind," Wulfgar gestured around to his comrades. "I think Drizzt still has questions, but he was never one much for sleep." He ended his statement with a chuckle.

"Indeed, Bruenor and I do not yet feel fatigue," the Dark Elf said, letting his cloak slip back just a bit and revealing some of his face. "If it is alright, we would like to remain."

"Don't let us stand in your way," Johnson said with a shrug. "So long as you don't break anything, there won't be a problem."

"I think I'll stay just a bit too, I've got some things I need to ask the Arbiter," Neeshka said, self consciously reaching down and picking up her tail.

As the other natives took their leave, the Chief noticed that the Elites were gathering around a large container that they'd brought in on their last run. The Grunts and the Hunters also seemed to be getting anxious by its presence. Curious, he looked over to Johnson, and then over to Commander Keyes, who was emerging from the Longsword fighter. None of them seemed to have the faintest idea what was going on, so they decided to investigate.

Mias stood in front of it, while N'tho, and Usze seemed to be forming an honor guard of sorts around the crate, grasping their weapons tightly at attention.

"Arbiter," the Sangheili commander called, "we saved this until last, as there was more important equipment to be retrieved. Now, however, we may open it, and rejoice."

"What is it?" Orna asked, stepping forward.

Mias's response was to raise his hand. As one, the Covenant troops flowed and ebbed into ranks in such a manner that even Bruenor and Drizzt seemed to be mystified and enthralled by it. The Sangheili held their new rifles tight across their chests, the Hunters raised their arms in a shielded salute, and even the Grunts stood ramrod straight.

Mias pressed a few buttons on the side of the container, and it slowly hissed opened. Orna walked up to see what was inside, and then gasped. His hands began to shake, his mandibles trembled. He reached down into the container and pulled out something. Staring at it for a moment, the Master Chief realized that it was a helmet, but unlike anything that he'd ever seen before.

Its coloring alternated between a dark cobalt and black, and it bore some superficial resemblance to the helmets the Elites had worn when under the command of the Prophets. However, this helmet was fully enclosing, with a visor across where the eyes would be. Also, in addition to the long back ridges and the two fang like protrusions that came off of where the mandibles connected to the skull, were a set of blade like attachments, and two spinal ridges running along the top of the helmet that reminded him distantly of a human Samurai.

"This is…" Orna breathed, shaking his head. "You cannot be serious, I could never."

"The Council, the survivors of it, at any rate, deemed you worthy, Orna Fulsammee," Mias said, his voice quiet, reserved. "You fought long and hard against the parasite, survived suicide mission after suicide mission. You saved them from the Jiralhanae. You fought to stop Truth from activating the array index and destroying an entire galaxy." He nodded his head somberly. "You have more than earned the right to wear the armor of the Light of Sangheilios."

"But—" Orna began.

"But nothing, _Ascetic_. You are not the broken failure that Truth squashed beneath his foot those many months ago," Mias said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Your name is shouted on the voice and wind of every member of the Neo-Covenant. They have looked to you in the time of crisis, your bravery, your steadfastness in times of danger… and your ability to see beyond what is told to you, to see the truth, as it really is." He gestured over to the Master Chief. "The Light of Sangheilios will have never received a more worthy member." Then he chuckled. "Besides, that relic that you wear may look nice and shiny, but it's horribly outdated."

Orna said nothing, but slowly reached up and took off his helmet. A number of Elites shouldered their rifles and stepped forward. One at time, they reverently removed the plates of the armor from his body. They took them, and stepped back into line, while others stepped forward and withdrew the other pieces of the new armor from the crate. Orna shed the under-suit for his equipment, and the Master Chief heard several gasps. He looked over and saw that it had been Neeshka, Drizzt, and Bruenor. No doubt they were staring at the Mark of Shame, the horrific series of scars that had been burned into Orna's chest after the destruction of Installation 04.

A new under-suit was quickly donned, hiding the disfigurement away.

The next bit reminded John of what he'd seen once with Deja back in his training days: a knighting ceremony. One by one, the Sangheili stepped forward and began to attach the plates of armor to Orna's body. Then others presented him with weapons. Two plasma rifles, just a hair larger than his old ones. These sported a single barrel, as well as iron sights and what appeared to be some manner of smart link. Then came a set of plasma swords, which he took and holstered.

"Orna Fullsamee, by the power and authority invested in me by the Council of Elders, I know proclaim you an Ascetic, and you are entitled to all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities of the Light of Sangheilios."

"I will shoulder these responsibilities for as long as I am called, Commander," Orna responded, his face fully hidden by the helmet that he wore. "I will dedicate my talents and abilities to the defense of the Covenant, to our people, and to our allies." He crossed an arm over his chest and clenched the hand into a fist. "I swear this upon my life and my honor."

"Your vow is accepted," Mias stated. "Company, salute!" he bellowed.

Those not holding a part of the armor of the Arbiter brought their weapons to attention, and Orna took a step back.

The Master Chief was tempted to whistle as he stared at the armor. It reminded him of what Ritas Dursamee, Shipmaster of the Shadow of Intent, had worn. The shoulder pads were more rounded however, curving over to help reinforce the area around Orna's collar bones, and the plates on his hooves, hands, and upper chest were slightly thicker. The black and cobalt color of the armor was complemented by a runic like script that was pasted onto several regions in a manner similar to the Honor Guard that had protected the covenant Leadership.

Combined with the helmet and weapons, it made Orna look like a demon spat out of hell, a ferocious combatant that few would wish to battle. As the group of Covenant soldiers dispersed, going back to their duties and sealing the old armor up in the crate, the newly christened Elite slowly walked back over to them, and the Master Chief noticed that his gait was different. His shoulders seemed to be held just a tad bit higher, his footfalls not as heavy as before.

"It feels like a great burden has been lifted from my shoulders," he said softly, staring at the group. "I suppose you have questions, though."

"What's an Ascetic?" Johnson asked.

"Long ago, before the Covenant was formed, they were the guardians of the Council, and the protectors of our people. The Light of Sangheilios is the order to which they belong, and only the greatest soldiers were admitted to its ranks," Orna responded. "My ultimate role is no different, save perhaps, for no longer being sent out to die a martyr. The new equipment is nice." He paused for a moment, and then looked at the Master Chief again. "I believe that Mias said they also had something for you and your friends. We should get to that next."

The Master Chief opened his mouth to speak an affirmative, but then he felt something tingle up his spine. Something felt wrong, like he was being watched. In and instant, his battle rifle had been drawn and leveled.

His instincts proved correct, as he heard soft laughing, and looked over into the corner. There was a humanoid there, dressed in scarlet and black robes, with a face that was a pale blue in color.

"Oh… I see. Helm, you sly dog…" he smirked as he looked at the group.

A loud series of cocking and whines filling the air stated that the rest of the crew was aware of his sudden entrance, and he got a very uneasy look upon his face. Slowly the man raised his hands into the air.

"A tad jumpy… understandable." He took a few steps forward. "But I have no wished to harm you. I merely wished to converse with little Neeshka here."

"Hells, hells, hells," Neeshka spat, shaking her head in disgust. "What do you want?"

"Is saying hello a crime?" the man returned, raising an eyebrow.

"It depends," the Tiefling responded, her tail lashing back and forth.

"Who the hell is this?" Johnson asked, an MA5B leveled at the intruder.

"Hell, such an ironic choice of words," the man mused.

"Ladies and gentlemen, meet Mephasm, Pit Lord of the Nine Hells, and one of the personal lieutenants of Asmodeus, Lord of Darkness… and my grandfather." Neeshka growled with a dry flourish.

Mephasm simply smiled.

* * *

&

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Okay, got that one done. Chapter 15 should also be up soon, as it's looking to be a bit shorter than most of them. I'd reckon about Monday at the latest.

Hope this chapter was good, though, and if you want to send feedback, ideas, or critiques on it, I'd love to hear about it. I'm especially nervous about what I did to the Arbiter in this chapter, and the ones that will happen in the immediate future, well, let's say elements in it may be over the top, given the context of what will happen in them... God I'm so worried about it.

At any rate, thanks again for your time, and you all stay safe out there.

* * *


	16. Chapter Fifteen: Revelations Two

Hello everyone. Sorry for the delay here. This chapter's a little on the short side, but the next two are already sitting with the proofreading Animedragongirl (special thanks to her again for all of this).

Exceptionally nervous about this and the upcoming chapters. There are things in motion here that might be great... or just as likely if not moreso, me getting in over my head.

As always, you have my thanks for taking the time to read this little bit of my overactive imagination, and I hope you find it worthy of your time.

Disclaimer: Please see previous fourteen chapters and prologue.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen- Revelation Two  
**

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* * *

  
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There were a few moments of silence from all parties, though the Covenant soldiers kept shifting about to improve their vectors of fire. Mephasm slowly lowered his arms and clasped his hands in front of him, before bowing softly.

"So you are the ones he wanted… interesting. Cunning. So like him. Amazing that I didn't see something like this coming," the so called 'Pit Fiend' muttered, bringing on hand up and rubbing his azure chin.

"Stop with the monologing, gramps. What do you want?" Neeshka growled, her hands going to her blades.

"Nothing much, my child. I was genuinely concerned for you, with all that's going on at the moment," he responded, and the Master Chief spotted what looked like a slight softening of his burning eyes.

"Yeah, your boss wouldn't have anything to do with that, would he?" The Teifling kept scowling.

"Perish the thought, Little Neeshka," Mephasm scoffed and shook his head. "The problem lies with the gods. Suffice to say, Bane brought down the straw that broke the camel's back, and now Ao has had quite enough." The devil shifted in his place, staring around at all the weapons that were directed towards him.

Ao? The Chief thought to himself. Who was that, and what sort of mischief could this 'Bane' have brought about.

"What did the god of tyranny do this time?" Drizzt asked, his hands tight upon his scimitars.

Mephasm stared at the Dark Elf for a moment, and then smiled wide. "Well, well, well, the famous Drizzt Do'Urden of house N'a'shezbaernon, a pleasure to meet your acquaintance at last." Mephasm bowed.

"You know me?" Drizzt's violet eyes seemed to glow from the depths of his cowl, and his swords came out an inch or two.

"Yes, Banisher of Errtu," the Devil chuckled. "I've been meaning to thank you for that. I swear, I could hear his roars all the way from my citadel!"

"I take it there's something else we've missed?" Johnson whispered over a private comm. line with the Master Chief. All the Spartan did was nod and activate an acknowledgement light.

"Back on track, what do you know of Bane's actions?" Neeshka continued to glare at her grandfather.

"Bane, Lord of Tyranny and Oppression," he cast an eye towards the offworlders, and the Chief assumed that the title was for their benefit, "once more has gotten too big for his pauldrons. He infiltrated Ao's celestial stronghold, and tried to steal his divine power. The Overgod did not take kindly to this, and now all the gods have been stripped of their powers and cast down to walk the world as mortals."

The eyes of the natives shot open wide, and their jaws dropped open. Bruenor went to speak, but Mephasm held up a hand. However, he was interrupted himself by yet another new voice.

"For all save one."

Half the weapons that were directed towards Mephasm twisted towards the new voice. Chief spared the briefest of glances to ascertain the new threat, and saw a man walking towards them. At least, he believed it was a man. The face was hidden by a silver armet, and the glowing blue eyes begged the question of what exactly they were dealing with here. The Spartan noticed well crafted plate armor, what appeared to be a hand and a half sword and a kite shield strapped to his back, peaking out from behind the edges of a cloak. A tabard covered some of the plate armor, white in color, with a silver gauntlet set into the center. An unblinking eye stared back at him, held in the palm of the gauntlet.

"Oh wonderful…" he faintly heard Neeshka mutter. "Now _he_ shows up."

"The next person who teleports in here is getting a belly full of uranium," Johnson growled.

"Wouldn't do any good." Neehska said. "Well, I take that back, you'd mess him up, but that's just an Avatar."

"A what?" the Master Chief said, racking his brain for any historical context associated with that term.

"Mind your tone," Bruenor hissed. "A devil is one thing, but you're looking at a God!"

"Not entirely," the newcomer said, and the Master Chief noticed that his voice seemed to have a strange after echo to it, like he was speaking over a great distance. "This is merely an aspect of who I am. Some clay and steel, molded by my hand and altered through magic."

"A shell, in other words, animated by your will, to keep your real 'entity' safe, am I right?" Cortana's voice said. She sounded most curious.

"That is correct, computer." The figure looked up, and nodded towards the ceiling of the hangar, then he turned to face the group before him. "My apologies," he said with a bow, "I should have introduced myself and not been so hasty with my arrival."

"And you would be?" John asked, his head twisting slightly tone side.

"I am known in these realms as Helm, the Eternal Watcher and vigilant guardian of the world of Torril… and it was I who brought you here."

There was a moment of stunned silence, and uneasy glances were exchanged. The natives seemed to be muttering among themselves, huddled up together, occasionally looking out towards the offworlders. Mephasm just smiled and chuckled softly.

"If I may ask," it was Commander Keyes who broke the silence, "why? What's so important about us? And if the Gods have supposedly been smitten by the divine wrath of this… Overgod, why are you still like you are? What makes you so special?"

"Because I am the only one Ao trusts enough to guard the entrance back to the celestial planes. I am the one selected to make certain that the other gods do not return until they've recaptured their divine essences." The Avatar crossed its arms, and its eyes seemed to glow just a little bit brighter. "It has to do with my origins."

"What do you mean?" Keyes arched an eyebrow.

"I cannot explain here. Even with the Gods stricken as they are, there may be unfriendly eyes trying to watch. Your computer has done a splendid job of keeping your frigate off the charts, as you would say, but information like this could be dangerous in the wrong hands." The Avatar looked back around, before his gaze settled upon Orna. "Gather a few of your brethren, and your sub-commanders, and have them prepare to travel." He then looked at Keyes. "The same with you, too. And bring your construct. You will have need of her."

At last, his gaze settled upon Neeshka, Drizzt, and Bruenor. The trio exchanged glances, and seemed to shuffle about nervously.

They were distracted by the sound of the Master Chief's boots thudding upon the armored deck as he rushed over towards a nearby console. The Mjolnir armor's crystal interface layer allowed him to link directly into Cortana's consciousness and pull her into the suit.

"I've locked the ship down, and left a few subroutines online to make certain that anyone who tries to come close to this thing is going to get a barrage of rail gun fire in their faces," Cortana said over the Master Chief's external speakers.

"Good," Keyes responded.

It took only a few more moments to get everything together, and then the Avatar spread its arms wide.

"Prepare yourself," it said. "The first time is always quite unsettling."

What happened next reminded the Master Chief of the time he and his family had been forced to drop out of slipspace without the aid of a ship to protect themselves. He felt his stomach try to fly up through his throat, and his very bones seemed to vibrate. There was a swirl of blue blackness all around them, and then it faded.

The Spartan immediately took stock of the new surroundings. They were in a room of some sort. It was square, about sixty feet on other side, and it was dominated by a series of what were unmistakably holographic computer symbols. For a moment, he felt like he was on a Covenant ship, or back on one of the Halos.

"Where are we?" he asked. This was certainly not what he expected of a God.

Speaking of which, this so called 'Helm' was nowhere to be found.

The thought had no more entered his head than a door slid open and the Avatar entered. No, wait, that wasn't right. _An_ Avatar entered, but it was a different one from the one that had brought them here. The equipment was somewhat different, the armet replaced by a sallet and the sword and shield combo by a pair of arming swords.

The Chief also realized that Mephasm wasn't with them.

"Mephasm is an ally of mine for the moment, but there are things that I don't trust him with. And your safety at the moment is paramount," the being said. The voice was still the same, it seemed. "Still, I suppose you have questions."

"For starters…" Keyes said, before pausing, and the Master Chief knew what she was pausing for. How did one address a figure of divinity?

"Please, Helm will do for the moment. I've never been one to stand on ceremony."

"Helm, then. Would you care to explain why you yanked us halfway across the known universe?" The Commander kept her tone neutral, but her eyes were full of suspicion.

"Because this world needs someone like you, Commander. Someone brave enough to stand against a tide of darkness, to show the surface world that the Drow are not invincible, that they can be beaten." Helm responded. "And for another, you are part of a plan that has been eons in the making… though not without its hiccups."

"I'll bet," Neeshka growled, her eyes narrowed and her tail flicking back and forth.

The Avatar stared at her for a moment, before its eyes softened, the glow became less intense. "I know you, Neeshka, and your story."

"Yeah, but that's not what bothers me." She clenched her fists. "I said goodbye to you after half a decade of having to put up with your priests, but Kale… he worshiped you all his life. Every victory saw him giving thanks to you…. And how did you repay him?" Her voice cracked just a tiny amount, and the Master Chief thought he could see part of a psychological mask slipping away, something that kept hidden pain from being seen by others. "When the King of Shadow's citadel was crashing down, why didn't you save him? Why did you leave him to die?"

The Avatar gestured and a light filled the chamber. Everyone looked down, and to their surprise, saw that the floor of the room had been transformed into a holopanel of some sort. The Master Chief saw the jungles of some strange place, filled with monsters that reminded him of the Trollmoores. The creatures were trying to scramble up a stone wall that was being defended by a number of soldiers. Some of them were females, he noticed, favoring spears and shields, while others were clad in plate and robes, spitting fire and lightning from their blades.

One group stood out from the others. It held the central barricade, the hardest pressed area from the looks of things. Defending it was a small troop of soldiers, clad in silver armor. Their weapons were bloodstained, but what surprised the Master Chief was that there seemed to be glowing, multicolored auras that were wrapping and pulsing around the troops. Their speed was too great for any normal human, as was their strength. Fireballs and lightning blasts did nothing to them. They shrugged off blows that should have crippled an ordinary human.

The creatures took heavy losses, and then broke and fled, screaming back into the jungle. A hearty cheer went up among the defenders. As the image zoomed in, the Spartan noticed that one man was slightly different. Through the gaps in his helmet, he could see that his skin was tanned by the sun, but pale in its origins. His brethren were as dark skinned as Sergeant Johnson, and only this man had a tabard on that matched the symbol the Avatar bore.

"Impossible," he heard Neeshka breath.

"Kale Romar fights on the world of Sanctuary, along with several others you may recognize."

"A splendid fight!" a voice suddenly shouted, and a small person, barely larger than a child, rushed up. "Oh, I shall have to write something about this."

Two others joined him soon. One was an elf, small even compared to Drizzt, who seemed to be grinning sardonically as he shifted the armor that he wore. The other was a tall man who spoke in a deep, gravely voice that seemed as though it carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders. John couldn't help but notice the skeletons that trailed behind him, or the strange, black and white armor that he wore, which looked as if it resembled a bleached skeleton wrapped in the abyss of darkness. Even the helmet that he was carrying looked as if it had been carved from the cranium of some great demon.

"Grobnar… Sand… Jerro…" the Tiefling said, her eyes wide.

"Each is there learning new skills, new magic, new arts of forging weaponry and bending the arcane to their will," the Avatar spoke. "When they are done destroying the demon lords that terrorize that world, they will be brought back here, and then their skills will spread."

"You trust Ammon Jerro not to go mad with power?" She arched an eyebrow.

"He deserves the chance, child," Helm said. "Noble is the man who would die for his people… nobler still is the man who would damn himself for them."

"That doesn't tell us why we're here," Johnson spoke up for the first time.

"That is true, Sergeant Major," the Avatar stated, and nodded its head. "I brought you here, to this world so far from your own, to help rally humanity to resist those who would enslave them. The Lords of the surface are divided by petty strife and conflict not terribly different from that of your own world in this stage of its life." Helm paused, and crossed his arms, before bowing his head just slightly. "I've researched your pasts, all of you. Where you have battled, people have risen and stood by your sides. When defeat seemed in inevitable, you showed your people that victory was possible."

"What's so important about Humanity? What's it to you?" Johnson arched an eyebrow.

"For that, you must know that there are three ways that a… being, may become a deity," Helm said, and held up a hand, his index finger pointed up. "The first is to be created as such. This is what the _overwhelming_ majority of the current gods and goddesses of this neck of the universe are." He held up a second finger. "The second is to slay a deity and take its power. That's no small feat, but as the coming weeks will reveal, certainly possible."

"And the third?" the Master Chief asked.

"There are certain… equations, for lack of a better term, that one may discover, buried in the twin progressions of science and magic. If one is able to balance and decipher the equitation, and fulfill the necessary steps for it, energy, matter, and all the essences of the cosmos can become clay in your hand."

John stared long and hard at the Avatar, his eyes trying to see past that sallet that covered its face. "That's what happened to you, wasn't it?"

"Correct, Spartan-117," Helm said, and in his mind, John heard his name being whispered by the Avatar. "As I said earlier, I am currently called Helm, but that is not the name that was given to me by my mother and my father." There was a sigh, and the eyes of the being seemed to grow far away, like it was filled with a sudden longing. "I was born more than a hundred thousand years ago, on a planet long since blasted to ash and dust… There, on that day, at that time, I was given the name Arias Didact."

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Weeellllll... I hope that wasn't too jarring. I should warn you that I'm going to be taking some liberties with the way things played out in the next couple of chapters, and hopefully they won't be too over the top. (Crosses fingers)

As always, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, short though it was (don't worry, the next two put together are nearly fifty pages long), and feedback is appreciated, be it constructive criticism, comment, idea, or flame.

Until next time, guys, stay safe.


	17. Chapter Sixteen: Flashback to Oblivion

Wellll, hello again everyone. I am sorry for the ungodly delay, but life's been a pain to say the least. I've suffered computer crashes, computer replacements, law school exams, law school grades (which present marked improvements in all fields, though not as much improvement as I would have liked) and other such things. Personally, though, this chapter has me simply terrified, and I've been hesistant to put it up. It's mainly because there will be some combat in here that deals with the Forerunners. The games were always pretty vauge about how things went down, though some articles my friends sent me (dealing with what calcs and the like could be derrived) and which I have subsequently lost were to put it blunt, frightening (those of you familiar with The Culture line of sci-fi novels may notice similarties). Combined with my desire to undo a number of overly cliche tropes (such as the ancient protector race having gobs of power but being absolutely brain dead when it comes to military tactics and the like) and I'm simply worried, to the point of bearly going out of my mind, that this chapter has turned into an over the top piece of crap. I extend to you that warning, and my personal fears that I've failed.

I also feel incline to note that I've made alterations to how things go down here, just slightly. Certain characters appear before they do in Halo Canon. Hopefully it won't turn this into more of a trainwreck.

Hopefully it's not too bad, but I'll leave that decision in your hands.

Musical influence for this chapter: First movement from Resident Evil Outbreak's "The Extermination." I felt it fitting in both spirit and title, given the contents of the chapter.

Disclaimer: same as always, I lay claim to nothing but the characters of my own creation here. Everything else belongs to Bungie, WOTC, or the minds that created them.

Here's chapter sixteen at long last.

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**Chapter Sixteen- Flashback to Oblivion, Part I**

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There was a moment of stunned silence among the offworlders, while the natives stared at each other in confusion. Drizzt, Neeshka, and Bruenor looked back and forth to each other, and shrugged. They'd heard of mortals becoming gods before, although not in the manner of which Helm spoke of. What significance did the name have?

A shuffling noise caught their attention, and they were surprised to see Orna Fullsamee and the other members of the Covenant forces going down on one knee, their heads bowed low and one arm crossed over their chests.

"Forgive us for our ignorance, mighty one," Orna spoke. "For we have sinned against you and all your children."

"So I have recently become aware," the Avatar bowed his head. "I mourn for those you have slain, but as my own experiences have taught me, we Humans are nothing if not resilient. The UNSC and its people will recover in time. Rise, Orna Fullsamee, Light of Sangheilios. You serve no one by bowing your head. Rise up, all of you, and restore your honor by defending those you once sought to destroy."

As one, the Covenant soldiers rose, and saluted the deity in front of them.

"Begging his greatness' pardon," Bruenor said with a bow, "but we're a tad in the dark here."

"Arias Didact," the Master Chief spoke. "The Reclaimer of the Forerunners. A three hundred year veteran of the war against Gravemind, and the one who activated the Halo arrays to stop him."

"That is correct," the Avatar's voice grew soft, and the Spartan thought he could detect a crack in it. He arched his eyebrow. This was again, not what he expected of a supposed deity.

"You'll pardon us if we remain a tad suspicious," Commander Keyes said. "The last 'omnipotent' being who shanghaied us into working for him was Gravemind himself."

"Yes… I know. I've learned much over the past few weeks," Helm said. "I can offer you proof, however. My own memories."

The Avatar's eyes flashed, and there was that strange, slip space like feeling again. When it cleared, the Master Chief had to blink his eyes, and for one of the few times in his life, felt awe overcome him. He couldn't help it, his jaw dropped open behind his helmet, and he stared around like a child.

Holographic computers filled a large room, which appeared to almost be a hangar of sorts. He became aware of the fact that he could only change his perspective and his viewpoint so much, like he was looking through the eyes of another, and then he realized why: he was. These were Didact's memories, of course he'd be seeing through his eyes. Which begged the question, how was the Forerunner doing this? Was it sorcery, or technology that was enabling him to do such things? He became vaguely aware of the natives and the Covenant soldiers standing near him, but he paid them no mind at the moment.

Didact advanced forward a few paces, and the Spartan realized that the Forerunner was wearing what appeared to be some kind of clothing stitched out of a black rope like material. Then he noticed others, a group of six, moving forward, clad in the same manner. There were markings on the arms of the material, right about where the shoulder connected to the torso. Was it some kind of BDU? Military issue clothing?

"Salve, Imperator, promptus ut loricatus sursum?" One of the others said.

The first thing that the Chief realized was that the speech was Latin, specifically, a very old dialect of it. The second, was that the man addressing Didact was covered in mechanical components. A cybernetic eye glowed red, while several metal tubes came out from his left temple, trailing down for a bit before slipping into the strange clothing. A name popped up, pointing out something that seemed to be a military rank, and then the words "Horatius 'Cocles' Norastas."

"Apologies, one moment," Helm's voice echoed in his mind.

The language shifted into something that he could understand better.

"So typical of you, Cocles," Didact said with a laugh, "so very typical."

"Commander, everyone has to die sometime," the man laughed as he spoke, and slung an arm up around the other Forerunner. The Master Chief watched the strange clothing that the man wore bulge and flex in a manner that didn't quite seem natural, and then realized that it was some kind of powered undersuit.

Script appeared on the inside of his vision, bold and red.

_If you are through fraternizing, we've a mission to attend to, Commander Didact._

A response, printed in gold, was the response.

_You are correct as always, Mendicant. What's the assignment?_

The Master Chief noticed that others were responding as well, and took notice of the color coding. The names, however, held his attention more than anything. There were several that he recognized. Hypotheses started to form in his mind, checking and double checking what he knew of ancient history, but he dared not leap to a conclusion, not yet.

_The objective is simple. Approximately five hours ago, contact was lost with Observation Post P-360745. High Command has finally decided that sending in a combat team may be the best course of action. Their last transmission indicated that System PL38-27 had come under assault from the Omega Strain._

_Omega Strain? The Parasite?_ The thoughts were Didact's.

_Correct, Commander._ Mendicant responded. _You are to investigate the Outpost, reestablish contact with the research team, and monitor the groundside situation._

_Assets?_

_Your standard battle attire. Seven Class Twenty combat exoskeletons._

_I see command is opting to err on overkill for a change._ Another trooper, one by the name of Gilgamesh, responded.

_Anything else?_ Didact responded.

_Negative, Commander. You are to suit up and ship out immediately._

_Then let's get to it._ Didact said.

It was then that the Master Chief noticed that there was a clock of sorts in the bottom right hand corner of the Commander's vision, probably cybernetically projected as well. He understood the symbols as easily as if they were standard Phoenician based characters. According to what the clock said, that entire conversation had transpired in a fraction of a second. How would something like that be possible? Did the Forerunner's have an electronic neural lace of sorts, similar to his own, only much greater?

His thoughts were cut off as he watched the Forerunner soldiers turn towards a row of armor suits towards the back wall, and start moving towards them. Again, his breath caught in his throat. They were painted a solid, non reflective black, and stood just a little taller than he was. Each was opened up slightly, with room for a man to step inside of them. Some manner of targeting recital appeared, and began to identify various aspects of the armor suit. He saw layers of cooling and cushioning gel, hyperstrong alloys that boggled his mind as to how they were possible, and identification for weapon systems whose power was unbelievable.

Didact stepped inside of his, and the plates hummed, came to life, and shifted around him. Then the Forerunner soldier reached for the helmet that lay next to it. It was the same color as the armor, and molded in such as way that it vaguely reminded the Master Chief of the Corinthian styled helmets worn by ancient Greek hoplites. The black visor was partially reflective, and he gaped for a moment as he caught a brief glimpse of Didact's face. It almost looked like a younger version of his own. There were differences, however. The Commander's cheekbones were less pronounced, and rather than scaring on the right side of his face, a number of cybernetic elements were protruding from his skin.

Some parts of his past confrontations with Guilty Spark suddenly started to make a lot more sense.

He shook his mind from that thought, though. There would be time to piece together that puzzle later.

Didact slipped the helmet onto his head and began to power the suit up, revealing that the 'visor' was perhaps a sensor screen of sorts, as what we was looking at appeared to be some form of computer interface. A barrage of messages assaulted the Chief's mind as he watched the armor interlink with Didact's brain.

_Primary fusion powercell active. Bringing reactor up to ten percent power…_

_Shields coming online… shields activated, and holding._

_Life support on standby. Medical systems activated._

_Powering reactor up to twenty percent… reactor output increased._

_Weapon systems identification in progress… weapons identified: Telo-38-PR. Weapon power up successful. CQC-PP-23. Weapon power up successful. CQC-PCB-47. Weapon power up successful. MRLS-980-NLOS. Weapon Power up successful. TLAC-240. Weapon power up successful. Telo-38s-PC. Weapon power up successful._

_Increasing reactor power to thirty percent…._

_Powering up servomotors and thrusters… activation successful._

_Powering up cyber-network linkings and internal computer/communication systems… power up successful._

_ECM and ECCM coming online… power up successful._

_Self repair systems coming online…. Self repair systems activated._

_Increasing reactor power to forty percent… increase complete._

_Activating slipstream portal drives and chronoscopic manipulators… power up complete._

_Increasing reactor power to fifty percent… power up successful. _

_  
Psionic amplifiers inter-synching with operators cognitive patterns… synchronization complete._

_Directing remaining power to operator preset fields.. bringing generator up to full power. Main generator fully powered, output holding steady at 2.334E18 watts._

_Secondary and tertiary reactors on standby. Unit power-up complete. Welcome back, Commander._

Almost before it started, the process seemed to be complete. Text one more scrolled across the screen as Didact began to move forward, indicating that his suit was set to 'real time.' What did that mean?

Didact and his fellows quickly made their way over to a sleek looking craft that sported a couple of small wings and weapon blisters. The seven man task force clambered up into the back of the apparent dropship, and the door snapped shut behind them.

"Mendicant coming with us on this one?" one of them asked aloud, whose FoF identification system pegged him as 'Beowulf.'

There was a faint glow, and a man sized hologram appeared. It showed an individual with plain robes and a wrapping around his head that reminded John of a type of monastic order, albeit they looked rather ragged and worn. Aside from that, his only attire was a straight sword belted at his hip.

"Answer your question?" came a smooth voice that had a bit of a snarky undertone in it.

"Unfortunately, yes," Beowulf muttered.

"ETA?" Didact asked as the craft rumbled to life and started to accelerate.

"Ten minutes. I wouldn't bother to strap yourselves in," the A.I. responded.

There was a flash of light, and the next thing that the Master Chief saw was of a pristine, Earth-like planet, floating calmly within the harsh vacuum of space. He could see forests, mountains, deserts, and in an ocean near the planet's equatorial line, a hurricane that was brewing. There were differences between this world and the human homeworld, though. The oceans were smaller, the planet itself, somewhat larger, if the readouts were correct.

Didact turned as the ship changed course, heading for an asteroid belt several million kilometers away. The ship's acceleration and Delta-V capacities must have been enormous, because it only took seconds to reach the belt.

_Sir, long and short range scanners are both detecting strange fluctuations in the equipment of the outpost, and they are not answering hails._ Mendicant's text scrolled up.

"Outpost P-360745, this is Commander Arias Didact, please respond, over." The Commander waited a tick, and then continued. "Repeat, P-360745, please respond and tell us of your operational status. Failure to comply within thirty seconds will result in standard containment protocols. Repeat, status of situation. If your comm. system is damaged, please…"

Whatever he was about to say went dead in his throat as the dropship rounded an asteroid larger than High Charity. There was another one, not much smaller, that was floating in front of the ship.

"Oh… sweet Jesus…" the Master Chief heard Johnson breathe. John shared the sentiment.

The surface of the asteroid was covered in the tell tale brownish green… flesh… of a Flood infestation.

_Mendicant, scan that!_ Didact ordered, switching back over to mental communications. _See how far down into the facility that it goes, and if we can reach the research team._

_Scanning… scanning complete. The Parasite infestation has taken over the entire facility. I've located the research teams' neural networks, but I cannot access them. Attempts to contact them psionically have also met with failure. Their cognitive and biometric feedback seems consistent with observed parasite transformations. I'm also detecting a very large and rapidly growing infestation on the planet's surface. It's on the primary continent, near what appears to be a large metropolitan area._

_Show me._ Didact ordered.

A display came up on the HUD of the helmet, revealing a infestation moving so quickly that the Master Chief swore he could see it expanding out of the city.

_The number of Parasite controlled life forms already exceeds one hundred million. I predict complete planetary infestation within twenty four standard hours,_ Mendicant 'said'.

_Everyone, activate slipstream generators, and prepare for insertion. Heracles, you have the heavy weapons, take the forward position. Gilgamesh, ready that X-208, and prepare for containment protocols. Agilaz, move to coordinates 234.1 by 1500 and take up sniping position. The rest of you, form up on me, and get ready for mop up duty. This civilization is rated Class Two, so it's probable building interiors will have to be cleared in a slightly more personal manner._

_Commander Didact, with all due respect, the Council has adopted a Wait-and-See approach to dealing with the Parasite. They fear that the Mantle forbids—_

_I respect the Mantle, and have followed its path all my days, Mendicant, but do you really think that the Precursors would have stood by and watch a planet be overrun?_

_Sir, I cannot immediately hazard a guess at the odds of what the Precursors would have done, based on the few texts that we have of them, but if you like I could calculate—_

_Just deal with the outpost,_ Didact responded.

The Master Chief was once again amazed by the speed at which the parties had communicated. If Didact's internal clock was correct, the mental conversation had lasted a fraction of a second.

He thought back to that data cache that Guilty Spark had given them. If such means were available to create something of this nature, he was first in line to try it out.

He saw multi-color slipstream portals starting to form inside of the ship, one for each of the seven soldiers that were present. The last thing that he saw before Didact slipped into his was the dropship opening fire on the Flood infested asteroid before it started to be vaporized by the impact of energy weapons and some manner of missile.

The group reappeared down on the planet, six of them anyway. A flashing icon appeared on Didact's HUD, highlighting a portion of a mountain quite some distance off.

_Aligaz here, in sniper position… and by the Mantel, Sir, I suggest you move fast. My long range scanners are detecting a mobilization of native troops heading towards the city._

_More fodder for the Parasite to convert and feast upon…_ Didact responded. _Gilgamesh!_

_On it, Commander,_ the other Forerunner responded, and hefted what seemed to be a multi-barrel missile launcher. A series of highlighted spaces appeared in the city, and the visibly expanding Flood infection.

A small data read up appeared on the Commander's HUD, and the Master Chef took note of it. Apparently, the X-208 was a 'Crowd Control' weapon. Omnidirection, long range, and very fast. It was packing a scatter burst missile, loaded up with six different warheads… and each one of those containing several kilograms of compressed antimatter.

"Eeep…" he faintly heard Cortana's voice inside of his suit. "Tell me he's not going too—"

Whatever the A.I. had been about to utter was cut off by a loud roar and a whooshing column of flame that leapt back out of the missile launcher, turning the rocks behind Gilgamesh to molten slag. Then the missile took off, streaking up towards the city at a steep angle. Didact's perspective moved upwards, monitoring the path of the missile, and zooming in on it. As it neared the target, the missile burst apart, and smaller ones shot down towards the metropolis. They went below the skyline of the city, and a moment later, six fireballs expanded outwards, soon joined by a seventh as the original missile impacted right in the metropolis' heart. The flash should have blinded everyone staring at it, but then the Master Chief remembered that this was merely a computer screen.

The explosions changed color, from blue-hot blasts of flame and superheated air to mere polygonal displays.

_Mendicant, try to get our sensors through that, mark the progress of the Parasite's destruction._ Didact ordered.

_Understood, Sir, but I believe that you should know something. The High Council is aware of your current activity, and in the words of Councilor Sipula, they'd 'like to know what they hell you're doing.'_

_Containing an outbreak. The Parasite attacked and assimilated the Outpost, and now we've got to reel it in. Simple as that._

_I will relay the message,_ Mendicant responded. _Sensors are indicating that the Parasite is being destroyed almost instantly by the explosion… hold that thought a second, Commander. I'm detecting movement, and energy sources that do not seem consistent with expected levels of this civilization._ The Master Chief thought he could detect a note of worry, perhaps even apprehension, in the 'voice' of the construct.

_Aligaz, can you confirm?_ Didact asked.

_Checking, hold a tick, I'm increasing the power to my scanners, but there's an awful lot of ECM and interference down there, and it's not just coming from the explosions. Something's trying to hide from us…. Scanning complete. Movement confirmed. Highlighting contact areas._ The sniper said. Several flashes appeared within the very heart of the detonation. Then there were dozens… scores… hundreds.

Tiny meters and bars appeared next to each of the dots, indicating the level of power that the contacts were giving off. Didact stared at the display for a moment, then growled.

_Everyone, prepare to move in. I want standard spacing. Aligaz, remain where you are. Be prepared to provide cover fire if called upon._

A 'chorus' of yes sirs met the order. Slipstream portals opened again, and everyone ducked into theirs. The Chief noted a small message that stated that Didact had brought some manner of time dilation field online, and then the Forerunner soldier burst out of his teleport.

The Forerunner soldiers must have had some manner of sound dampener, the Master Chief mused, as he could hear nothing of the massive roar of the explosions that should have shattered the earth drums of any this close to it. What he could hear was a faint hiss of what sounded like some manner of thruster mechanism. It made sense. The blast that Didact and his fellows were currently jetting through would be packing the power to pick up Rhino tanks and toss them about like leaves upon a hurricane. The thrust necessary to stabilize their armor in such a maelstrom, let alone make headway against it, would have enormous.

_Everyone through?_ the Commander asked. A series of affirmatives flashed across the view screen. _Okay, move forward. Close formation, three hundred meter spread._

It didn't take long to encounter the source of the movement. The HUD zoomed in and highlighted a number of armored shapes, and John heard an intake of breath. Filtering through all the ECM, Didact's scanners were able to pierce the metal alloys of the enemy suits, and confirmed that they were Flood controlled life forms. Another blazing scroll of data bombarded the Spartan's brain, so quickly that even his mind had trouble processing it.

_Scans initiated… Parasite presence confirmed._

_Compiling data from additional unit feedback…. Enemy presence approximately five hundred strong._

_Scanning enemy comm chatter… scans negative. Scanning known psionic patterns… psionic communications confirmed. Presence is extremely potent, rated at Alpha Level, represents extreme threat._

_Scanning enemy armor and weapon systems…. Suit does not match known parameters of native civilization or that of Human based systems... Power levels analyzed… enemy power suit approximately equivalent to class sixteen combat exoskeleton. Combat threat: Minimal unless outnumbering friendly units by thirty or more. Enemy group scanned, fifteen present. Warning, slipspace generators detected. Ascertaining odds of victory… odds ascertained: 95.7% chance of total victory, Commander. Recommend attack pattern Sigma-Sigma-Beta._

_Orders, Sir?_ It was Cocleus.

_Purge with extreme prejudice! Engage!_ Didact responded.

A slip space portal appeared before the Commander, and he blasted through it. A moment later, he emerged a few kilometers above his foes, leveled the Telo weapon that he carried, and sighted them up. His foes were intelligent, however, and seemed to catch on quickly. He'd only managed a quick burst before they were vanishing into the own portals.

Warning alarms blared within the Forerunner's helmet, and he began zipping around in seemingly random patterns. Time seemed to slow even further as a slipspace portal started to form in front of him, about three klicks off.

_Bring Secondary and Tertiary generators online and up to full power. Channel power to shields, weapons, and psionics._ Didact ordered.

_Commencing power up… power up completed, suit reactors now running at two hundred percent of standard operational setting._ his suit responded.

_Mendicant!_ the Forerunner mentally barked as he unloaded his weapon into the heart of the portal, which had opened to reveal a Combat Form jetting out, some manner of SMG type weapon blazing away at the commander. _Make certain that the council is receiving this video feed!_

_One step ahead of you, Commander,_ the A.I. responded. _Sir, you should note that I am picking up long range pings on the FTL scanners. It appears to be a native invasion fleet, judging by the size._ he continued, as Didact weaved his way around a half dozen of his foes, firing away at them. A ten shot burst caught one unawares as he jetted behind it. The Master Chief watched its shields flicker and fade as it started to evade and return fire. Purple tinted bolt ripped through it at impossible speeds moments later.

Another enemy tried to face the commander, but was pegged a moment later from another vector. The large bolt blasted a massive hole in the unshielded suit and kept going, boring through several buildings. With no protection against the stellar level temperatures surrounding it, the Flood form inside the power armor was instantly transformed into its component atoms.

_Thank you, Aligaz_, Didact said, before warping away again.

Chatter filtered over the HUD, so much, so quickly, that the Spartan couldn't process it all. Judging by the decreasing counter that had appeared in the upper left corner when Didact had first engaged, he guessed that the battle was going well.

_Enemy is showing signs of adaptation to our battle tactics,_ Heracles remarked. _Orders, sir?_

_Regroup. Prepared your cannon for heavy duty work_ Didact responded. Then the Chief felt him glare at an offending combat form some distance off. He could somehow feel power coursing through the Forerunner. The combat form seemed to crumble in on itself, and then its power armor exploded spectacularly. The counter decreased again.

Then Didact warped again, appearing back down on the ground. The scanners of the Forerunner's suit picked up energy readings from his comrades, displaying them even through the buildings that were in the way.

_Here they come!_ Didact growled.

Portals began to appear all around the Forerunners, and they retaliated with a furious barrage of energy fire, missiles, and psionics. Beams went straight through the buildings, punching multi-meter wide holes in them. The blasts from the anti-matter missiles slipped through and purged them of any Flood infestation that dwelled within them. Psionic attacks ripped the city to pieces, and focus charged missile detonations added to the already hellish temperatures that raged around the Forerunners.

There was a strange, orderly chaos to it all, as they jetted and teleported around. When one looked as though he was going to be overwhelmed, his friends would instantly be at his side, laying down suppression fire, and unleashing everything they had until his shields had recharged. The enemy counter dwindled steadily.

Several bolts impacted upon Didact's shields, causing them to drop slightly. The Forerunner growled furiously, and sighted up his opponent, unleashing a barrage of well aimed automatic fire that shredded the suit and its occupant. A warning alarm indicated a proximity alert for a slipstream portal. He twisted about and flicked his left hand. The armor glowed, and a gleaming energy blade, shaped rather like an arming sword used by the knights of old, appeared in his hand. The Master Chief felt that pulsing that accompanied the flux of psionic power course though the Forerunner soldier, and with a roar, he thrust it into the portal. It skewered right into the chest of one of the Flood controlled suits, overloaded it, and blew the armor to pieces.

Most of the resulting detonation was shunted into slipspace, but some of it blasted back out over the Forerunner. If it bothered him at all, he ignored it as he twisted around, and shouldered his rifle again. He jetted sideways as he fired off energy rounds into the Flood operated power suits. The bolts tore into their shields, into their armor, and ripped them open. They turned to ash and dust in an instant as they were exposed to the fireballs.

The Forerunner commander shot down a sidestreet, moving up alongside one of his companions. FoF identified him as Heracles, and the Master Chief came to understand what the Forerunners considered a heavy weapons operator. The device that Heracles was operating was an ugly, multi-barreled weapon that reminded him ominously of the 50mm railguns that the UNSC used for point defense. Only this thing was shooting out energy beams that were slagging building walls and causing the Flood combat forms to explode in a very spectacular manner.

As he watched, another weapon activated and came to life. Mounted on the soldier's shoulder, it was a large, cannon-like device that unfolded and took aim independent of Heracles. There was a resounding boom, and a visible amount of recoil as the device leapt backwards like a tank cannon. The weapon punched a hole straight through a combat form that had been a few klicks above the Forerunner's position. Didact took aim, assisting his brother in arms. The Telo rifle that he carried let off a twenty round burst and reduced an enemy combat form to molten slag. The powersuit, still operating under its own momentum, smashed into a building and became an interesting addition to its outward superstructure.

The Master Chief felt Didact's psionic abilities start to hum to life once more, and then a massive blast-door was ripped off of one of the structures. The Flood lifeforms inside of it were gone in a flash. But Didact wasn't done yet. The door came to life like it was held in the hand of some invisible giant, and flew upwards. The Forerunner's visor zoomed in on it, and watched as it was swiss-cheesed by Flood fire. Too late, it seemed, the Flood unit realized its danger as the door shot by it, turned around, and slammed into it.

The form had been more than three kilometers up when Didact had connected with it, and it accelerated all the way down, getting faster by the millisecond. There was an earth shattering crash as the door and the combat unit hit the ground. Didact picked the door back up again, and took aim at the weaker power suit. Several well placed shots from his rifle destroyed the combat form.

_Sir, I might be in need of assistance._ It was Aligaz. _Enemy units are onto my position and have slipspace jumped to surround me. Attempting counter evasions._

_On it,_ Didact responded. _Gilgamesh, Enkidu, Colces, Beowulf, assist Heracles with mop up. I'm moving to assist Aligaz._

A portal appeared in front of the Forerunner commander, and he jetted through it, appearing a split second later within visual range of Aligaz. The sniper was zipping around the mountain, engaged against a swarm of Flood controlled powersuits. A bolt from his sniper rifle blasted through the mountain, turning countless tons of snow and ice into super heated water vapor before it burrowed through the rock and exploded out the other side. The shot sent one of his foes reeling, end over end as it was blasted apart by the fury of the bolt.

Didact shot forward, holding his rifle steady and sending bursts of fire straight towards the Flood controlled units. They twisted and evaded, but the Forerunner was too good. Three fell in as many bursts, holes punched in their suits and their insides reduced to ashen ruins. A small missile fired from his shoulder, tracking and targeting another one before flawlessly impacting upon it. The Flood form went up in a blue hot flash as the missile's focus charge warhead detonated.

By this point in time, less than a hundred Flood combat forms remained, and the Forerunner strike team had yet to be wounded. The Master Chief was in awe at what he saw before him in Didact's memories. As the soldier struck down two more of his foes, the Spartan thought back to all the battles that he'd witnessed and been a part of. Just one suit, just a single exoskeleton like what the troops here were wearing, and everything might have turned out different.

He shook his head and focused back on the battle at hand. Reminiscing about the past would not do him any good. One could not change it after all.

Didact warped through a slipspace portal, appearing right behind one of his foes. The Flood unit had its back to him, but sensed his approach. It tried to evade, but could not match the inhuman speed that Didact came at it with. The energy blade appeared in his hands and in blurred series of motions, his opponent was falling to the ground in pieces. Didact flew towards the northeast, where a group of the unit seemed to be trying to escape his wrath. They didn't get far, though. Between the Forerunner commander and Aligaz's unnatural shooting abilities, they were quickly dispatched.

_Enemy forces in full retreat. Mendicant, track them! Intercept and eliminate,_ Didact ordered.

_Exit vectors confirmed, moving to intercept_ Mendicant responded.

_Reestablishing sniper vector_ Aligaz 'growled'. Then he warped away, appearing back on the mountain top. Within moments, he'd sighted up some of the remaining foes, and was blazing away with his longarm rifle.

_Moving back into sector three by four eight_ Didact responded, before jumping back into the metropolis and the small star that was blazing away there.

The Flood controlled units had formed up into a defensive perimeter, and seemed to be attempting to use the buildings for cover while engaging with non LOS weaponry such as missiles, and what seemed to be some form of energy howitzer. It didn't do them much good. Even massed fire was shrugged off by the Class Twenty suits. What followed was a fast, brutal battle in which the Forerunners showed no mercy.

Didact crouched as he moved forward, his rifle level with his foes as he fired again and again. The energy pulses punched through the buildings like they weren't even there, before slamming into the inferior enemy suits and destroying them.

_Squad advance forward to coordinates 100.05 by 250.1 and open fire with everything you have. I want this finished._ Even though he couldn't hear inflections in the voice of the commander, the Master Chief could feel the cold bloodedness to his tone. There was something about this scenario which was bothering Didact, and the Spartan's keen mind told him it was something more than just the fact that the Flood had managed to assimilate some Forerunner research scientists.

Even Aligaz warped in, and the area soon blazed with energy weapon fire. Death claimed a number of forms as Didact once again proved how adept he was with his rifle. Heracles moved in from the southeast, his enormous, multi-barreled weapon opened fire and cut down a swarm of Flood controlled units. The counter dropped to twenty five. It was less a battle now, more a massacre. Still, Didact and his fellows did not relent.

Didact fired another missile at a Flood unit that was attempting to flee through a slipstream portal. The device followed it through a split second before the portal closed.

Fifteen clicks away form their current position, another portal opened up, but all that emerged from it was an explosion. The Master Chief couldn't help but smile.

His smiled faded into a look of disbelief as he realized that the last combat form had been taken out by the group. He'd been so enthralled by the battle that he'd failed notice the mission clock in the lower left hand corner of Didact's HUD. It read as plus twenty two and a half seconds since the Forerunner squad had engaged their Flood controlled adversaries.

He blinked once, twice, three times, as he continued to stare at the number, and his neurons exploded into activity as he tried to fathom how such a thing was possible. Then he remembered something. When the suit had been powering up, the checklist had mentioned a chronoscopic device, and there had been a brief mention of a time dilation effect when Didact had initiated planet fall. Was it possible that they had the ability to literally slow time? To speed themselves up?

It made some sense, in a strange way. He'd already seen one of their artifacts that could perform such feats. The crystal that they'd found on Reach, the one that had distorted Space Time itself and allowed the Ascendant Justice to cross a quarter of the galaxy in less than five minutes; a journey that, even with Covenant technology, should have taken the better part of a week. He had just never believed they could have had something like that on the infantry level.

_I don't like this one bit._ Didact muttered to himself.

_Indeed. The destruction of the station and its research will be something of a tragic loss…_ Mendicant said.

_Not that. Not that at all._ Didact shook his head. _Think about it. The Parasite didn't just happen across blueprints to construct suits like that. Where would they have gotten the knowledge? Where would they have gotten the materials?_

_You are suggesting that within the time period since they took over the station, that the Parasite has __learned__ how to create dedicated combat equipment far superior to anything the natives had, simply from analyzing some of our civilian technology?_ the A.I. seemed bemused.

_Not so much that… but the ability to learn on its own. This thing has demonstrated the ability to learn at an astounding, dare I say, alarming, pace. I think we've drastically underestimated the Parasite's adaptive and cognitive capacities._

_What now, Sir?_ Cocles asked as he looked around at the city.

_We split up into two teams, and work our way around the city. Once we've cleansed the buildings, we start to try and see if there's anyone left alive in this mess._ Didact responded. _Gilgamesh, Cocles, Enkidu, go with Heracles and start at the northeast sector. The rest of you come with me to the southwest. We'll work our way around in a counter clockwise motion, and meet back up at the central region of the city. Everyone understand?_

A series of affirmatives echoed through the cybernetic mind of the Forerunner commander, and then they split out, heading for their respective targets. What followed was an almost surreal unfolding of events, as the solders split out and enveloped the city. Nothing that was infested was spared. Every last molecule of Flood infested matter was wiped clean. It was like Armageddon, the Master Chief thought to himself as if the hand of an angry God had swept down and purged the area of some manner of foul heresy.

By the time that the soldiers were finished, the antimatter explosions were clearing up, though the area still virtually glowed with radioactivity, and dust clouds covered the area of hundreds of kilometers in every direction.

_Native armed forces are approaching three hundred kilometer perimeter._ Aligaz said as he scanned the area around them.

_Native fleet is within one minute of FTL exit vector. Commander, you orders?_ Mendicant asked.

_Keep them away from the planet, we can't risk any chance of a Parasite spore getting onboard their craft. If they get their hands on additional FTL tech, they could spread themselves all over this quadrant._ There was a pause. _Try to limit your methods to non lethal means of dissuasion. Target an asteroid, show them what you can do. If they still press onward, use the dropship's ion cannons to disable their warships._

Then the Forerunner turned his attention to a large, central building. It was the last one left to clean, and it appeared to be some kind of command and control center. It was militant in nature, judging by how deep it appeared to go. Most curiously, though, was that there was a large power source underneath it, below the regions that showed Parasite infestation, and life forms that appeared to be untainted by the Flood's touch.

_That's our target. Move!_ Didact ordered.

Seven portals appeared in front of the soldiers, gateways to a realm that was beyond the laws of physics and where the rules of reality held no sway. The Forerunner fire team jetted inside.

They reappeared in the interior of the building, surrounded by a host of Flood infested flesh. The room they were in appeared to be some sort of entrance lobby, or what had been one at one point in time. The Master Chief could hear more gaps of disbelief coming from the natives, but he himself wasn't surprised. He had been on High Charity. He had witnessed, first hand, just how fast the Flood could spread. There was a faint pulsing in the Spartan's temple, and he fought the urge to remove his helmet and rub at it. Instead, he redirected his medical systems to administer a small dosage of caffeine, Acetaminophen, and Aspirin to deal with the mounting migraine. He wondered what could have been causing it.

_It's in distress…_ Gilgamesh muttered.

_That's because it knows we're here to kill it._ Beowulf said, hefting his weapon and fiddling with an attachment to the underside of his rifle.

_Projectors out._ Didact ordered.

A small tube extended out of the left bracer of each of the soldiers' wrists. It didn't go out very far, just an inch or two beyond the back of their hands. They placed their backs to one another, and aimed the weapons down at the floor. Deep blue flames of some sort out of the tube, and the room quickly grew hotter than the surface of a star. John knew that Gravemind was able to somehow manipulate reality, use its psychic abilities to make it and its minions far sturdier than they should be otherwise. He'd seen Flood flesh survive atmospheric reentry on the Ark and Installation 08. However, before these temperatures, even this dug in infestation soon began to burn and cook. Soon, it was little more than vaporized liquids and cremated ash.

His temples throbbed as he felt its psionic screams ripping through his mind. It was hurting… it was in pain. Distantly, as he'd gunned down one combat form after another, he'd always wondered if Gravemind, or the infection form itself, was capable of feeling pain. Now, it seemed he had his answer.

Still, in a bestial manner, he was glad to see the wretched, putrid flesh burning away into nothingness. Rtas had once said that a single Flood spore could destroy a species. The Sangehili ship master was only too right about that.

It took only moments for them to finish up. By then, not only was the infestation gone, but the floors, walls, and ceiling of the room they were in glowed white hot, and the Master Chief knew that to even set foot in a room like that without shielded armor would result in a nigh instantaneous death as the ambient temperatures caused the water in the body to boil inside of itself.

_Phase one of cleansing completed._ Didact remarked. The Forerunner soldier then holstered his rifle and pulled out a weapon that looked like a carbine version of it, with a underlsung barrel that was significantly larger. _Split into teams and fan out. I want beacons and video feed on at all times. Mendicant, monitor us. If it looks like there's trouble ahead, warn us. If I go down, you take over command and control… Everyone understand?_

Again, the chorus of yes sirs came.

_Good. Let's go hunting._

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Well, there it is. I will now hide behind riot gear and hope that reader irritation is limited to rotten produce and the occassional explitive, and not something like an ICBM. Also, for any curious, the helmet that didact and the others are wearing, simply ask and I'll e-mail you the link to the picture.

Hope this chapter's okay, and hope that you guys have a good day.


	18. Chapter Seventeen: Flasback to Oblivion2

Hi everyone. Been busy again. Lots of stuff going on, and feverently waiting for a call that should tell me yea or nay on whether or not I might get an internship back home. So very, very nervous right now. That, and the chapter I fear is once again over the top.

Hope I've answered everyone's questions to their liking. I'm just going to post this thing, and then go back to my bunker and pray I don't vomit.

Oh, by the way, did everyone who asked for it get the link to the helmet design? 's always been fickle with such things for me.

Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

Musical influence: With Iron Fist. The Unsung War. Tribute to War. Spawn.

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**Chapter Seventeen- Flashback to Oblivion, Part II**

_Beowulf, with me!_ Didact growled.

_Coming, Commander,_ the Forerunner soldier said.

The squadron split up into two other groups, Enkidu and Gilgamesh going together while Aligaz and Cocles backed Heracles up.

They descended deeper and deeper into the complex, their carbines held out in front of them and their strange flame projectors at the ready. Whenever they encountered the brownish green hue of Flood flesh, they burned it to ash without a moment's hesitation. There were other creatures out and about as well. The Master Chief recognized a few Flood infection forms. It was almost laughable, watching the little balls trying to skitter away on their tentacles. Or rather, that's what they appeared to be trying to do. The basic forms of the Flood parasite had no means of temporally speeding themselves up. As such, they were utterly exposed and helpless before Didact's onslaught. There were some combat forms as well, of an alien species that he had never before borne witness to… or had he?

There was something eerily familiar about the manner in which the long, serpentine necks flopped over the back and the large, faded eyes that were built into the sides of the heads rolled about. Three fingered hands that were encased in armor and sported heavy weaponry turned so slowly that the Spartan had to squint and take a second look to discern any movement whatsoever.

They stood before Didact for microseconds before the Forerunner blew them to hell. Automatic bursts were no longer necessary. Single shots vaporized the combat forms, armor and weaponry and all, in the time that it took the Spartan to blink.

_Commander, native fleet has exited FTL vector. Numbers are identical with prior analysis. I'm detecting approximately ten battleships, three dozen ships in the heavy cruiser range, and about nine score destroyers and frigates. Fighter craft are present, and number in the thousands,_ Mendicant stated.

_Proceed with previous orders, Mendicant,_ Didact responded as he turned his projector upon an infestation of Flood forms.

_Affirmative, Commander Didact. Asteroid targeted at coordinates 6-gamma-seven by 809. Commencing fire now… Asteroid eliminated. Slowing to real time to give ships time to adequately respond. Will update you when information becomes available._

Didact said nothing, merely eradicated another group of native combat forms literally before they could become aware of his presence.

The Master Chief watched as level after level was cleared by the Forerunner soldiers. At last, they came to just outside of where the power readings were coming from.

_Move in. Killing house formation._ Didact ordered.

Beowulf's response was to blast open the final set of doors with a single well placed carbine bolt.

The room inside was covered in the flesh of the infestation. However, the center of the room held two things. The first was a glowing orb, contained by a gun metal gray machine that reminded the Master Chief of one of the old plasma ball toys that civilians sometimes purchased. Didact's HUD identified it as a matter energy converter, powered by a number of singularities. John raised his eyebrows at that, but refocused his attention upon the scene unfolding around his eyes. The second was another set of doors, strangely untouched by the Parasite.

_Stay alert. The Parasite could not possibly be so foolish as to leave something this valuable unguarded,_ Didact ordered Beowulf.

The other Forerunner soldier complied, keeping his weapon raised and his scanners online.

The doors at the far end of the room started to crease and fold, and that was the only warning that the two of them would receive as a pair of massive combat forms burst through the door. The Master Chief was uncertain as to what they might have been previously, or if they were even some type of native life form at all, as opposed to a created Flood variant. Regardless of what they were, they moved along the ground on six legs, interspaced with armored plates that seemed similar, if larger, than the class sixteen that the previous forms had been clad in. The Spartan cocked an eyebrow and wondered what Gravemind and his minions were up to this time around.

The new forms sported a number of arms as well, each one clasping a weapon of some variety. A large cannon was leveled at both Forerunner soldiers, and they quickly dashed out of the way as it blasted a hole straight through the wall of the room and kept going. Didact thrust his will forward and blasted the abomination off of its feet and sent it sailing across the room hard enough to squash the flesh that coated the walls and dent them inward. He put a dozen rounds into the creature as his armor's sensors told him that it was a class seventeen armor suit that the creatures were clad in.

The combat forms raised their other arms and other weapons were brought to bear, resembling multi-barreled autocannons. The energy rounds impacted up Didact as he jetted to the side, causing his shields to drop by a hairsbreadth.

The other monstrosity charged towards Beowulf, and the second soldier was knocked flat. Then he got hit by a psychic attack that felt as if it had the force of a falling mountain behind it. The soldier cried out in agony, a scream tempered by rage. A plasma blade of some kind appeared on one of the creature's many arms, and it made to run Beowulf through. Didact altered his aim, leveling his carbine at the beast. As he went to fire, the arm shot forward, impossibly fast. Beowulf, though, was not destined to die then.

The Forerunner leapt up, and with a single arm, grabbed the combat form around what appeared to be its wrist. He let out a scream of rage and fury, and yanked backwards. A cacophonous din of rending metal, flesh, and circuitry reached the ears of the Master Chief. Sparks flew, fluids of some unknown nature gushed, and in the blink of an eye, Beowulf had torn the creature's arm from its socket.

"The horrible monster suffered grievous pain; a gapping wound opened on his shoulder; the sinews sprang apart, the muscles were bursting. Glory in battle was given to Beowulf..." John heard Cortana whisper in his mind.

Beowulf jetted up, dodging weapons fire as he shields began to recharge, firing off rounds from his carbine and blasting large holes in the armor. He tossed the creature's arm back at it, smashing it in the face with enough force to knock the creature down. A back mounted weapon, resembling a much smaller variant of what Heracles had, swiveled up and fired a single round. The Spartan thought that it looked somewhat like a grenade. The device penetrated through the Flood flesh of the exposed arm socket, giving the cyborg just enough to time to read a data file that had popped up, identifying it as a XP-308 anti-infantry device. A moment later, the anti-matter payload went off with a deafening boom. The Flood combat form died instantly, and its suit was reduced to a half melted pile of slag.

Didact turned his attention back on the one that he was dealing with. The combat form let out a psychic scream of rage and leveled all of its weapons at the Forerunner. Didact was promptly nailed by more weapons fire than even the Spartan's enhanced perception could keep track of. However, while the physical impacts of the bolts were enough to slowly push the power armored soldier back, they were not enough to breach his protective shields.

Didact retaliated with a massive psionic strike. Unlike the previous attacks, this was no mere working of psychic muscle, no thrust of will. This was a tidal wave that rippled around the room. Flesh was torn from the walls, conduits and circuitry exploded. Metal shrieked in agony before bending and distorting to the mental fury of the Forerunner commander. Assimilated consoles were reduced to so much useless tin foil as the attack washed over them. The lights flickered, the surviving machinery sputtered, and the combat form screamed as it was smashed around the room like a tinker toy.

Only the converter in the middle of the room was spared. Didact leveled his carbine with one hand, and extended his left wrist. At the range he was at, even firing one handed, the carbine was dead on. From his left wrist came a scattering of energy blasts, like some type of plasma based shotgun. The barrages struck the large Flood Juggernaught, driving it backwards, ravaging its shields in an instant. Its armor heated white hot, was breached, and summarily vaporized by a single bolt from the carbine.

There was a tense moment among the two soldiers as they waited for Flood reinforcements that never arrived.

_Well, that was interesting._ Beowulf muttered. _What do you suppose those things were, Commander? Heavy Infantry of some kind?_

_Not sure. Mendicant, do you copy?_

_I copy, Sir, what do you need?_ the A.I. responded.

_Run a time index back through our monitors and see if you can cross reference those things we just fought with archived native life forms,_ Didact ordered. _And status on the native fleet?_

_Running now. Native fleet is beginning to attempt respond, Sir. Please bear in mind that it's been about .05 seconds real-time since I turned that asteroid into gravel. I think their minds are still trying to comprehend the destruction that our drop ship is capable of inflicting upon the then._ There was a brief pause. _I've cross referenced the database. The creatures that you just killed are not registered as native life forms upon this planet._

_They made them… the Parasite created something new. Something born of its own essence, rather than simply hijacked…_ Didact's partially computerized mind somehow seemed quiet, fearful almost.

He and Beowulf exchanged a look, and then the two of them pressed deeper into the complex. Not, however, before Didact created a slip space portal and put the matter converter back within the safety of the drop ship.

From there on out, the resistance that the two soldiers encountered was relatively light, and both they and the other groups had little more to do besides burn the Parasite's infections to ash. At last, though, they reached the bottom of the facility, and rejoined each other down there. There was one final door. It was heavily reinforced, shielded, and had large, menacing looking weapons protecting it. Still, judging from the lack of burn marks upon the walls, it looked as if the Flood had simply ignored this area of the facility.

_Scans detect non-infected life forms on the other side of that door._ Mendicant responded. _Native fleet is holding position. I was forced to disable one light cruiser as it attempted to jump to FTL and pass my position. They seemed to have taken the lesson to heart. Either that, or they haven't decided what to do next._

_Moving forward,_ Didact said. _Enkidu, disable these defenses. I don't want those cannons firing when we get these people out of here._

The Master Chief understood. The weapons posed no risk to the Forerunner soldiers. They could probably fire until whatever power reserves they had ran completely dry and not even begin to make a dent against those shields. However, it was highly improbable that all the individuals inside would be combat shielded soldiers, as opposed to frightened civilians. Best not to take any risks when dealing with a potentially volatile situation like that.

It took Enkidu only moments to disable the weapons and shields via some manner of remote hacking. The Master Chief could sense Cortana stirring a bit within his mind. He wasn't surprised. Hacking was what she was literally born to do. Watching a Forerunner in action was probably a dream come true for her. He could only imagine what sort of theories and hypotheses might have been firing back and forth within her mind at the current moment.

_Switching manipulators back to real time, preparing for first contact,_ Didact said.

The Forerunner commander stepped up to the door, and it slowly opened. The Master Chief stared, blinked a few times, and felt shock course through his system. Standing in front of Didact were a number of small figures, not even a meter tall when one didn't include the neck. They were obviously children, hidden down here as a last attempt to keep them safe from the Flood. However, what held his attention was not their age, but rather, their species. Pinkish brown skin, large, blinking eyes set into an almost serpentine head and neck and a thin, frail looking body. What stood before Didact was nothing other than a group of San 'Shyuum. Prophets…

Didact took a few steps towards them, holstering his carbine. The children quite naturally recoiled in terror. Here was this big, black monstrosity every bit of two and a half times their height, and the powers that be only knew how many times their mass standing before them, and they were virtually naked save for the thin clothes that they wore. No weapons, no means of defense, their parents probably dead or worse. It was a horrible fate to have to endure, and a pang of sympathy welled up in the Spartan's normally ice cold heart.

Looking at these creatures, he did not see Regret's fanaticism, Mercy's sadistic cunning, or Truth's cold blooded scheming and power mongering. He saw frightened young ones who'd just been put through the closest thing to hell this plane of reality had to offer.

A soothing, psionic thrumming came from Didact then, almost hypnotic. The young San Shyuun relaxed, and one slowly advanced towards Didact. With surprising gentleness, considering his suit's strength enhancers, the commander picked up the young child in his arms. The Master Chief could feel the loss and the pain in the child's mind through the strange 'vision' that Helm was showing them.

_What do we do with them?_ Heracles spoke up.

_We take them to their people,_ Didact responded.

The Forerunner opened up another portal, and stepped through. The whirling maelstrom of slip space twisted and pulsed for the briefest of microseconds, and then they were at their destination. The bridge of the ship that Didact had warped upon was nothing like the Master Chief had expected. It was large, round, and judging by the readouts coming from the Forerunner's HUD, placed upon the top of the ship. Gray walls and touch-screens were everywhere.

There were gasps, and what appeared to be a security detail aimed weapons at the Forerunner, but didn't fire. The Master Chief stared long and hard at the new-old San Shyuun. They still had the oblong heads that he was used to seeing, but far from appearing frail and weak, as the ones that he'd seen had, muscles could be seen bulging underneath plated combat armor. They saw that he was holding one of their young, and raised their weapons away from him.

One of them, presumably the captain, stood up and shouted something at Didact in a language that the Spartan couldn't understand. He felt the pulsing of the Commander's psychic powers as the others entered, carrying the rest of the children in their arms.

_Be at peace, we mean you no harm…_ Didact said, his 'voice' echoing inside the mind of the captain.

_What?_ The response was not as deep as the Master Chief expected. Was the captain a female?

_We regret the loss of life and destruction that befell your city, but it was necessary. The foe you face is not like anything that this galaxy has ever seen before._ Didact remained calm, handing the child over to the alien. _The Parasite is a voracious learner, a devourer of knowledge and technology as well as your biological essences. We have contained the outbreak, but already, the creature may have learned enough from your technology to begin to augment itself. Be wary and on your guard._ There was a pause. _If you discover one of these outbreaks has infested one of your cities or your planets, do not hesitate to destroy the infection. Left unchecked, one single spore of this... creature… can destroy an entire species._

With that, Didact and the others turned, and reopened their portals.

The captain said a single word that the Spartan could not understand, but judging by the outstretched arm, he believed it to be a 'wait' equivalent.

_Who are you?_ He heard the captain think.

_We are those that watch in the absence of the Precrusors._ Didact said. _We are those who strive to maintain order and balance in the galaxy._

Then he entered the portal.

* * *

The next few moments became a blur of mixing images and conversations and events. The Spartan understood vaguely what was going on, based off the data entries that he had been able to read. The Council, as Didact had called it, had been uncertain what measures to take with the Flood, and as a result, it had moved unchecked save for a few small counter offensives. By the time they realized the true threat that Gravemind presented, it was too late. Gravemind had learned too much, assembled too much of an industrial basis. He no longer had to rely on assimilating others technology, because he could make it himself.

Ships loaded with Flood spores and capable of crossing the galaxy in mere days were soon impacting on planets all over the Milky Way. What followed was a three hundred year war of attrition that the Forerunners could not win. Their ships destroyed whole solar systems. Planets were reduced to gravel, heedless of the life forms still struggling upon them. Ships risking Flood infestation were self destructed and destroyed, before slip space portals were opened and sucked the debris into the other dimension, where on the off chance that a spore of an infection form had managed to survive, it wouldn't be able to threaten anything.

On the ground, Didact and other Forerunner soldiers fought with a fury the Spartan had never before witnessed. Infestations were brutally exterminated as the power armored soldiers streaked into battle. Sometimes they worked alone, sometimes in tandem with the native forces. He 'saw' rumors begin to circulate among the less advanced races, rumors of strange avatars and powerful beings that would appear wherever the Parasite was, and attempt to reclaim the world for its true inhabitants.

The name seemed to stick. Intercepted transmissions and observations of the other races indicated that they were always seeking out these mysterious 'Reclaimers,' each trying to enlist their aid more fully, none realizing that there were a thousand other species in the same boat. The Forerunners battled for them all, and fought with a determination that was unmatched, against odds that would have caused most to balk at, or run in terror from.

But it was not enough. Gravemind controlled most of the galaxy. Its forces numbered in the quintillions, its naval assets the hundreds of billions. There was too much to destroy, not enough weapons to do the job.

And one by one, the Forerunners were taken down. They were overwhelmed.

The Master Chief watched Gilgamesh and Enkidu were slain in a desperate holding action to buy time for civilians to evacuate. Heracles met a similar fate, laughing in a deranged manner as he overloaded his armor's reactor cores and self destructed rather than be assimilated by the Flood. Aligaz met his end when his drop ship was taken out by a well placed strike from a Flood controlled capital ship.

Beowulf was killed by an orbital strike from an allied ship. The Spartan supposed his FTL generator must have been damaged, because he stood his ground and did not try to flee as a Forerunner frigate took aim at the world that he battled upon. As he continued to lay waste to his opposition, the ship above fired. One shot was all that was necessary. In the blink of an eye, the planet detonated as if it had been little more than a hand grenade.

The last to die was Cocles. The Spartan saw him holding a bridge like structure. At the far end of it was a portal from which Flood combat forms spilled like a never ending tide. Lighter armed Forerunners were retreating around him, clutching small objects to their chests while they fired pulse rifles and missiles back in the direction of the portal. As Didact moved to cover one of the other soldiers, John was able to gasp a glimpse of what they were carrying, and his breath caught in his throat again.

It was a young Sangheili.

_Species 40201 'Sangheili' secured. We have sufficient stock for viable genetic variances to produce altered clones and allow for reseeding._ The mental 'voice' was similar to Mendicant's, but sounded younger and at the same time colder.

_We copy that, Offensive Bias,_ Didact responded. _Preparing to pull back. Get these young ones onto the nearest Shield World._

Shield World? Reseeding? A cold chill worked its way through John's soul. That meant one thing: the Arrays. They were either in the process of, or had already finished the constructions of the Halo rings. They were preparing for their last stand. For the last battle with Gravemind that would leave an entire galaxy dead.

_Move it, Sir!_ Cocles said.

_Waiting on you,_ Didact fired back.

_Not happening. You heard Offensive. The Parasite has trillions of combat forms on the other side of that thing. A constant field of fire is the only thing stopping them from getting through. I'm not about to risk letting one of them get into the Maginot Sphere._

_That is an—_ Didact began.

Even as he telepathically responded, a transformed Sangheili slipped through. It was quickly atomized by Cocles, but more could be seen. The Master Chief understood. Gravemind was trying to run his foes out of ammo. He knew the Sangheili troops' weaponry were currently incapable of matching a class twenty combat exoskeleton, so he sought to remove the threat by depleting the ammunition stores of the suit while inflicting what damage he could through overwhelming numbers; a clever, if costly, maneuver.

_Sir, I'm expendable in the bigger picture here. There's a high probability that I'll be dead before this is all over with anyway. Might as well make it worth something._

_The High Council agrees with Sergeant Cocles's assessment, Didact. They are ordering you to fall back and assume command of the Maginot defenses at Galactic Coordinates 34067.1 by -69025.7 immediately. Failure to comply will be met with court marshall and or your death. They are collapsing the singularity bridges in approximately .75 real time seconds... _Offensive interjected.

Didact stood where he was for a few moments as Cocles continued to fire into the portal, desperate to stem the tide.

_Precursors grant you peace, my old friend, _he said, and then jetted towards the other end of the energy bridge.

"One by one, they died, and I was left alone… then, came my Fall," Helm said.

The Master Chief knew of what he spoke, but he was curious. Who exactly was the Librarian that Didact had gambled everything for?

"Ah, I see you wonder what could have been so important to me, Spartan, that I ultimately damned trillions for it." The Avatar appeared next to him, and the visions before him and the natives stopped. "The answer is simpler than you might think… The Librarian was Diana Merlianius, my wife."

"Your wife?" Keyes spoke up for the first time.

"Yes." Helm said. "She was an ambitious scientist, seeking to catalog and document all the species of the galaxy. She especially loved studying the sentient races to see how they acted among themselves and occasionally, _reacted_ to her presence… ultimately, that would be her undoing…"

An image appeared, showing what appeared to be a young woman not out of her twenties. There was a smile on her face, reflected in her green eyes. Black hair that was neatly trimmed partially covered a number of cybernetic implants in her face and skull.

"Any new species discovered?" It was Didact's voice.

"A number. Since our arrival at this planet, we've discovered several insects and aquatic life. Along with a strange life-form that has never before been encountered. It is wormlike, but sentient and hive minded," Diana said, crossing her arms. "Has the council decided anything regarding your incident with the Parasite?"

"They are concerned about the extremity of the methods the squad and I undertook, but aside from that, I have heard nothing," Didact shrugged.

The image shifted again, and the Spartan recognized a text scrolling that he'd read on the Ark.

_D: We've confirmed your observations. Infected superluminal ships are arrowing inward from several clusters. No more spiral growth. The thing is counterattacking. Suppression, Security and Emergency Circumstance fleets are all being recalled. Systems are evacuating. _

_  
Mendicant Bias is no longer communicating with us.  
But now I can guess where you are._

_L: I've remotely destroyed our Keyships. A security measure. Without them I cannot reach the Ark. But then, neither can the thing. _

_  
I'm trapped. On a beautiful, empty world. Its inhabitants have been safely indexed, every single one of them. They're special--well worth the effort it took to build one final gateway even at this late hour._

_  
Forget about me, D, I am already dead. You have a job you must do. People you must safeguard and bring to the Shield Worlds and the Ark._

"I do not understand." The voice belonged to Drizzt. The Dark Elf turned to face the God, his arms crossed and his face eerily visible beneath his cloak. "What is this indexing? What are these 'Arrays' that the other being spoke of?"

Helm's answer was a wave of his hand the creation of the images of the seven Halo arrays.

"Halo," Helm said.

"What is that?" John heard Neeshka breathe.

"A series of artificial ring worlds, created by our people. Ten thousand kilometers in diameter, possessing one standard gravitational unit and a standard oxygen nitrogen atmosphere… and housing both research facilities for studying captured Parasite infection forms and ultimately, our final weapon."

John noticed that the natives were staring at Helm with blank expressions, and the Avatar nodded its head somberly.

"Do not let the rings' beauty deceive you. They were weapons of last resort, created just in case we failed. Upon activation, each Array would create a superluminal pulse that could cover the entire galaxy in minutes." He paused. "This pulse would kill any life form with sufficient biomass and cognitive capacity to sustain the Flood. Every trick we had failed, every fleet was overcome. Eventually, we had no choice but to try and activate them."

"I don't follow," Drizzt spoke, and the Master Chief could hear the mounting horror in the Drow's voice.

"During the course of our campaign, a decision was reached to try and assault the Parasite's hivemind, its core essence. We had tracked its location, and knew that it identified itself as 'Gravemind,' but previous attempts had met in failure from a combination of the sheer number of ships that the Parasite had defending its core, and its mind." Helm's glowing eyes seemed to bore into the Dark Elf. "The Parasite was psychic, and its potential power increased with every additional mind that was added to its collective. By the time we located it, they numbered so vast that they could have given pause to the combined legions of the demons and the devils. Gravemind showed his superiority and his disdain for our efforts with the last time we faced him by wiping out a star cluster a thousand light years away from his central core with what amounted to a snap of his fingers."

Johnson whistled and Miranda gulped.

"Indeed." Helm turned his attention to them. "It was decided that a new advent would be needed to prevent another such failure. A combination effort was created. Our fleets would engage and destroy as many clusters of Parasite forces as they could, while one of our artificial intelligences would be given an upgrade, and given the psychic potential necessary to resist Gravemind's power, try to take it out of the picture."

"But something went wrong." The Master Chief nodded his head, remembering the texts that he'd read on the Ark.

"That is correct, Spartan. Again, we underestimated the Parasite's potential. Not even Mendicant was a match for it." Helm bowed his head. "Gravemind overpowered the A.I. and turned him to its side. Our greatest weapon had been turned against us, in more ways than one. Mendicant knew our defense protocols, our plans for the Arrays in the event that we failed." The Avatar paused once again. "We knew then that it was all over. Everything we had fought for had been for naught. The Arrays would have to be activated. I was assigned with a fleet to protect a vital sector in the outer regions of the Maginot Sphere… it was there, where I fell. In a single moment of lapsed judgment, with one selfish action, I doomed myself and the rest of our society."

"What do you mean?" It was Neeshka who spoke this time.

John looked over at her. There was a glint in the eyes of the Tiefling, unlike anything he'd seen before. She was not glaring at the deity, per say, but her look wasn't kind. A mixture of horror and distrust, if he were to hazard a guess.

"Very simple, Neeshka," Helm seemed to sigh. "I knew that Diana was out there. Her fate would be oblivion as the Array's shockwave slammed into that planet. The thought of her being there, utterly helpless…" he raised a fist, and clenched it tight. "I abandoned my post, raced to the aid of her and her research team. Mendicant was ready though. He had predicted an eighty five percent probability of such actions from me. A Parasite fleet intercepted us, and tore us to pieces. Worse, with us gone, there was no one left to guard our sector. The council moved swiftly to counter act my rash actions, but it was too late. Gravemind pounced, and tore into the sector like a blood-mad predator. Whole planets were overrun, the keyships that were to take our people to the safety of the Shield Worlds lost. Trillions were killed or converted into vessels and food for the Parasite's forces.

"By some, twisted mockery of fate, my dreadnought was able to limp home. I think Mendicant let me go, perhaps some bizarre form of gratitude both for our past time's together, and for letting him have his victory." Helm paused again, and sighed. "Needless to say, I was put on trial for cowardice in the face of the enemy, dereliction of duty, and for all the blood that now stained my hands."

The scenes before them changed again, revealing an area that was vaguely reminiscent of a courtroom. The Master Chief realized from the present perspective that Didact was standing on a raised platform with monitors surrounding him. People dressed in robes were on the other end of them, and read ups on Didact's built in HUD kept identifying various councilors. The one called Sipula glared down at the soldier in front of him, and pursed his lips.

"Commander Arias Didact," he said. "It has henceforth been decided by this council, that because of your blatant disregard of military protocols, and the enormous consequences of your actions that—"

"Spare us the theatrics, Councilor," Didact interrupted. "We both know what I did. We both know what the consequences were. Let's not waste time with acting… when am I to face execution?"

"You are not," the councilor responded. There was nothing in his voice, the Master Chief was surprised to note. No hatred. No malice. The man just seemed tired. "The council has decided that your fate is to be different. The arrays will need to be activated soon. The enemy is aware of our plans however, and a number of fleets are massing to prepare to jump to the last areas that we hold, and then to stage an assault upon the Ark itself." Sipula paused. "The Arrays must be activated before this, but in order to avoid arousing the suspicion of Mendicant Bias or the Gravemind, we must use a decoy. Our remaining ships will engage in a holding action, while a single scouting craft slips through and heads for the Ark."

"I am to be part of the defenses?" Didact asked.

"You are to be the one to activate the Arrays."

There was a moment of pause, and the Master Chief felt something in Didact's mind, like something was about to break. A new series of images bombarded the Spartan's mind, images of what appeared to be young children, Didact's children, John quickly realized. He saw them again, grown up and in military uniform, men and women alike. He saw parents as well, relatives from all walks of life.

"You cannot mean that!" Didact's voice was barely a whisper. "My crime is great, but surely—"

"The decision of this council stands." Sipula said, and all faded into blackness.

"I don't understand," Bruenor spoke up. "What exactly are they going to make you do?"

"Simple, my good Dwarf," Helm replied. "I am going to be the one to head to the Ark, and then activate the Halos. There was a sword pointed at the heart of the galaxy, and I was to be the one who would plunge it in and twist it."

"So then, how did you survive?" Neeshka asked.

An image of the Milky Way appeared before the group. With a gesture, Helm highlighted an area located some distance above it.

"The Ark is here, located a little more than two hundred and sixty thousand light years above the Galactic Core. The maximum effective range of the Halos was a little over two hundred and ten thousand. I was safely out of the blast range."

"So they punished you by letting you live?" The Tiefling raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Yes. And it was quite cruel, Neeshka… but then, I deserved no less." He turned to face her, and let his glowing eyes bore into her soul. "I still had children alive, grandchildren, even. My parents had survived thus far, as well. Everything I knew… everything I loved, would die by my own hand. As a civilization, we were finished, and I was going to have to be the one to slit its throat."

He paused, and let that sink in.

"Offensive Bias led the counter assault. We'd created him after the Parasite first appeared, using Mendicant as a template, specifically with the idea of combating them in mind. Later, after Mendicant went rampant, we altered his combat protocols to be better able to deal with hostile A.I's as well." Helm gestured and an image appeared from his memories.

He was getting into a small shuttle-like craft. The Master Chief could tell that he was wearing his armor once again, and Didact's hands flew over the control panel, activating a number of devices and bringing the ship online.

_This is Reclaimer. Standing by for launch,_ Didact said.

_Copy that, Reclaimer, this is Sovereign._ An image appeared before Didact, first of a massive, city sized ship. It was long and thin, with gun mounts, missile tubes, and a host of other weapons splitting off of a hull that vaguely resembled a triangle. Off the dorsal and ventral stern areas sprang a wing type structure that went straight out at about a sixty degree angle. Weapon mounts were also highly visible upon those structures.

Maximum effective coverage, minimum targeting profile. Very clever, the Master Chief thought to himself.

The image zoomed in and revealed a Forerunner in full battle armor present upon the ship. He was identified as Admiral Octavian Dulianus and from what the read outs were saying, he was inside of the Sovereign's bridge. The structure was buried within the very heart of the ship, and judging by the small readout/diagram in Didact's lower right HUD, protected by multiple secondary armor belts and had other less vital decks serving as sacrificial ablative armor in the event of a shield breech.

_Reclaimer is in away in T-minus three. All battle groups report in,_ the admiral said.

A flashing screen appeared in front of Didact. It zoomed in on a portion of the Milky Way that was about a thousand light years across.

_Battle group Truth and Reconciliation standing by._ A flashing highlight pointed to an area at the far end of the map.

_Battle group Far Sight Lost standing by._ An area was highlighted on the other side of the map.

_Battle group Lawgiver standing by._

_Battle group Ascendant Justice standing by._

_Battle group Bloodied Spirit standing by._

_Battle group Shadow of Intent standing by. _

And so it went. There were scores of battle groups, and as the map zoomed in, the Master Chief could see tens of thousands of Forerunner ships, hundreds of thousands possibly. They ranged from light frigates and escort ships all the way up to the massive dreadnoughts that the Admiral was upon. It was an armada, the Master Chief knew, that would strike fear and terror into the heart of any sane creature.

But what they were fighting wasn't exactly sane, and didn't know fear in the traditional sense. Gravemind wouldn't even pause at such a force, especially if he knew the consequences of failure.

Didact's craft finished powering up, and shot out of the hangar that it was in. Within moments, the craft had entered slip space, and was speeding away. However, Didact remained in communication with the battle group, and was able to observe what was going on. Some of the ships began to arrange themselves into various formations. Communications between the groups were constant and never ending and they positioned themselves for maximum effective coverage.

A portal was opened up in the center of the battlefield, one that resembled the one that had appeared over the ruins of New Mombassa.

"A decoy," Helm spoke. "It led to one of the Arrays, not the Ark. Mendicant didn't know that, though. He thought our goal was an organized retreat of sorts."

Didact's craft had not been away more than a couple of real time minutes before slip space portals started opening up every where around the battle groups. The number was large to begin with, and seemed to consist of small craft. But then came more. And more after them, and yet more still. For forever it went on, or seemed to. Finally, the torrent of portals disappeared.

Space was unbelievably vast in its size, and even with the amount of ships that Mendicant had brought with him, there would have been no way to observe them, spaced as they were. Fortunately, the displays took care of that, giving each ship in the flotilla a detailed view of what was out there, and the viewing screens that were available inside of Didact's craft made it painstakingly clear that his comrades were about to be in the fight of their lives.

_Enemy fleet analyzed._ The message appeared on Didact's HUD, and from the color, the Master Chief was able to see it was Offensive Bias. The A.I. appeared out of a holographic pedestal a moment later. He looked somewhat like Mendicant, except that the flowing, somewhat ragged robes had been replaced by a suit of combat armor. _Admiral, I regret to inform you that the enemy fleet outnumbers us approximately four hundred and thirty seven to one._

There was a gasp from the natives, and even the Chief felt a sense of awful dread creep up his spine. To hear about such a fleet was one thing, to read about it in a data entry… but to see it. To see countless millions of warships, converted civilian craft, cruisers, dreadnaughts, and the like, all pointed at you, with only one goal in mind. It was sobering. He was reminded of Reach, of the fear that passed through every member of the UNSC there to see such a massive Covenant force come screaming in out of Slip Space, knowing that the defenses would be a stalling measure at best.

It was no different for the poor souls onboard those ships. This would be their final hour. Defeat meant assimilation by the Flood. Victory meant their deaths as the shockwaves from the Halo arrays ripped the galaxy apart and killed any sentient life in it.

An image appeared of an A.I. It took the Master Chief several moments to realize that he was staring at Mendicant. The computer had changed so much since he'd last been seen. His robes were torn and more ragged than ever. Party of his face was distorted, and sported a few wavering Flood tentacles. His hair was likewise altered, with several tentacles moving around independently.

_Admiral… Offensive…_ he responded. _So good to see you again. I was hoping to have a chat with you before we got down to business._

_Then speak,_ Offensive said, and the Master Chief swore that he could feel the chill in the younger A.I.'s 'voice.' They were stalling for time. Every second counted.

_My master offers you a chance to surrender. To become part of a greater whole. To link your voice and mind with his own._ Mendicant spread his arms slightly. _Do not throw away your lives defying the inevitable. Your era of naval gazing is at an end, your vaunted Mantel has not saved you. Surrender. And the Gravemind promises to make your assimilations as painless as is possible. One way or another, his voice, his song, his thoughts, will be the one to live on in eternity._

_A tempting offer,_ Admiral Dulianus responded, rubbing the chin portion of his helmet. _Offensive, what say you?_

_I think I speak for us all, Sir, when I tell my brother than he and his 'Master' can both go to Oblivion, and rot in the endless void._ The younger A.I. snarled. _Come, Mendicant, let us see if you and your master can triumph over us. We will not go quietly to our ends!_

The Master Chief heard cheering over various comm channels and non-command frequencies.

Mendicant's eyes narrowed.

_So you have chosen death. So be it._

The mighty armada of Mendicant Bias streaked into action. A count down timer appeared in the lower corner of Didact's HUD. He recognized it. It was an approximation of how long it would take Didact to reach the Ark and activate it, and was currently reading at twelve minutes.

The converted civilian craft went in first. Mendicant held no illusions about the combat capabilities of this sub fleet. They were insects compared to what Offensive and his Forerunner allies could bring to bear. The Forerunner ships verily exploded with weapons fire. Energy pulses streaked left and right, while some ships streaked into Slip Space. All began to maneuver at speeds that baffled the Master Chief's mind. Admiral Dulianus and his fleet shot forward. The Sovereign zipped past a massive gas giant before pulling a pivot turn that would have snapped a Covenant cruiser in half. In a flash its weapons were presented, and it opened fire.

The rest of the fleet engaged in a series of turning dives and maneuvers that made the large ships seem more like graceful raptors or air superiority craft than battlecruisers. They fluttered and twisted, evading the smaller craft, and firing, always firing. The civilian transports swarmed around them, overwhelming the point defenses, the light, the medium, and the heavy energy weapons. There were simply too many targets, and not enough guns.

The Admiral's battle group managed to suffer only light losses, but as the opening minute of the battle came to a close, Offensive reported heavy losses among other fleets.

The Master Chief, though, knew what was ahead. Mendicant had just unwittingly sewn the seeds of his defeat. Within those craft were hidden protocols, remote control mechanisms, and redundant failsafes that would enable Offensive to take them over in a moments notice. It did not, however, mean that the soldiers onboard those ships could go down peacefully. They had to make the act look like it was real… a façade that would require their lives.

Didact saw comm videos and holograms of the interior of the ships as the Flood infested them. Soldiers in Class Twenty combat skins battled with all their might against the relentless tide of converted Forerunners that charged at them. Whenever defeat seemed inevitable, whenever they knew they could not hold out any longer, the soldiers would overload their armor and self destruct. The explosions of the powerful reactor cores rocked their ships, but they remained undamaged and combat viable.

The Master Chief knew that last key fact would be absolutely vital to the plan.

_We have loss approximately ten percent of our fleet, and of those, fully half of them are Dreadnaughts, Admiral._ Offensive turned to face the Forerunner leader, who nodded sagely.

_So it begins._ Dulianus responded. _How many—_

_Approximately three quarters of all civilian craft destroyed. My brother will use his warships next._ Offensive responded. _Sir, you should know that I have calculated that the collateral damage from this battle—_

_It is acceptable, Offensive. Failure is too great to worry about the shattering of worlds and stars. We must cauterize a wound to save the body._ This time the Admiral interrupted. _… may the future inhabitants of this galaxy forgive us our sins._

Offensive said nothing, but readied the remaining ships for the true attack wave. Mendicant came in force, sparing only a few of his ships. Energy blasts, missiles, mass drivers, particle cannons, and even tactical FTL weapons came into play. The stars seemed to be blotted out by the brightness of the fire that was traded. The ECM and ECCM of the combined fleets caused planets to shift, and rocky asteroid fields to flux in and about as the very rules of reality were cast aside. The battle was chaos given form.

Dulianus and the Sovereign shifted into Slip Space, only to find that there were six other ships upon their tail, more than five million kilometers astern. Two of the ships were dreadnaughts, the rest a heavy cruiser equivalent. The ship flipped end over end in the blink of an eye, reorienting itself and setting every weapon that it had upon them. Missiles, superluminal slugs, and energy pulses were traded. Offensive Bias handled it well as he kicked the ship around and kept it mobile. He focused his fire upon one of the smaller ships first, trying to knock them out of the fight and remove the number of weapons that were firing at the Sovereign. A massive fusillade pounded into the ship as it tried to evade, but was ultimately unsuccessful. Its shielding failed, its hull became breached in a dozen locations, and it finally spun off, trailing smoke and blistering sheens of energy. Even so, it didn't explode, but merely remained a dead, lifeless husk in Slip Space.

But the Sovereign herself was not immune. Energy blasts rocked her, and a number of missiles detonated along her portside stern. Her shields held, though, and she popped back into real space.

The other ships were right behind her, firing away as she tore through a binary star system. The Sovereign twisted to one side, and dove behind a planet. One of the cruisers fired, and the beam hit the terrestrial sphere rather than the ship. Despite the time manipulation fields that were running, as soon as the beam impacted, the Master Chief could see the cracks start to appear in the world's crust as it vaporized away and the planet itself violently exploded. The Sovereign fired through the rapidly expanding debris field, scoring a number of energy pulse hits and sending several hundred missiles streaking into the nearest ship as Offensive frantically tried to keep the flagship from taking too many hits from the enemy's weapon systems.

_Units two-six-five and two-six-six move in now!_ Offensive ordered.

On cue, another pair of dreadnaughts appeared at the far end of the system. They blazed away, using long range missile swarms to scatter the enemy formation until they could close to range with their other weapons. A barrage of mass driver shots connected with a cruiser, sending it spinning wildly out of control as its shields failed and two more rounds slammed into its starboard side. The momentum shifted it out of the path of the third round, but it was clear that the ship had been mission killed.

The third round continued onwards, slamming into another earth-like world closer to the main star of the system. Cracks emerged in the world's crust and it went spinning out of control as the power of the round blasted it out of orbit. The planet's gravitational field struggled to try and hold it together, but could not, and massive chunks of the sphere's crust and mantel began flying off in a hauntingly beautiful arc as it hurtled helplessly through space.

All the while, the Master Chief struggled to process the data feeds that the Sovereign was sending out and receiving from the other battle groups.

_Lawgiver three-six-seven reporting: mission kill confirmed on Parasite controlled frigate. Moving on to assist the rest of sub-group Beta._

_Sacred Promise nine-nine-eight, heavy battle damage. Shields are gone. Hull armor is holding. Requesting cover fire until heat sinks are finished dumping._

_Revenant seven-five-four reporting Parasite infestation through hull breach. Automated defenses and security teams are being dispatched, but unsure if they will be able to hold. In the event of failure, a tactical slip space ramming is planned for the nearest dreadnaught under Parasite control._

And so it went.

Six minutes of real time had passed, and the Master Chief knew that the battle was a little more than two fifths finished. The devastation was immense. Hundreds of stars had gone supernova during the battle, thousands of planets had been reduced to debris fields. There would be a hole, here, he realized. There would be a gap, five hundred light years in every direction, where no starlight shined, where no life could ever live again. There would be as barren a wasteland as reality could offer.

Didact began to open up other channels of communication as the battle raged on. The Master Chief noted seven channels grand total.

_Monitors, Reclaimer here. Report in and status._

_1202 Celestial Reflex reporting in._ A bright gold line of text streamed across Didact's HUD. _Installation-01 active and on standby alert. All simulations run. Ready to fire on command._

_5671 Sentinel Segmentium reporting in._ This message was silver, the Master Chief noted. _Installation-02 active and on standby alert. All simulations run. Ready to fire on command._

_809 Long Watch reporting in._ Now the text was green. _Installation-03 active and on standby alert. All simulations run. Ready to fire on command._

_343 Guilty Spark reporting in._ Blue text scrolled up, and the Master Chief recognized his unlikely comrade in arms. _Installation-04 active and on standby alert. All simulations run. Ready to fire on command._

_2401 Penitent Tangent reporting in._ Red text. The Spartan remembered the monitor of the Delta Halo, destined to eventually be captured and assimilated by Gravemind. _Installation-05 active and on standby alert. All simulations run. Ready to fire on command._

_717 Ethical Imperative reporting in._ This text was white. _Installation-06 active and on standby alert. All simulations run. Ready to fire on command._

_951 Acana Directive reporting in._ The final test was black. _Installation-07 active and on standby alert. All simulations run. Ready to fire on command._

_Stand by. I'm inbound shortly._ Didact responded.

_Understood,_ was the simultaneous response.

There were a few moments of silence. Then, Didact perked up slightly.

_I wonder if it had to be this way… or if there might have been something else,_ He mused. He seemed pensive, now, resigned.

_Pardon?_ Blue text. Guilty Spark.

_Tell me, Spark, what would you do?_ the Forerunner asked.

_I am not sure that I understand the question, Reclaimer,_ Spark responded.

_If the choice was yours to make; to activate the Arrays, or to wait and hope for a better option, what would you do?_ There was a weight that seemed to hang in the air as Didact blasted towards the Ark.

_I am not fully qualified for this observation or estimation, sir, but based on observed data and our findings with captured Parasite forms… there is no other choice. We must activate the rings._ The words echoed ominously within the Master Chief's mind, and he remembered when he and Spark had turned on each other, on Installation-04.

_"Last time, you asked me if it were my choice, would I do it? Having had considerable time to ponder your query, my answer has not changed. There is no choice. We must activate the rings."_

Spark truly had thought that the Spartan was Didact at the time.

John shook his head, and focused his attention back on the scene playing out before him.

The naval battle was still raging. The Sovereign, along with two heavy cruisers and a small group of escort craft, blurred into FTL. Once in slipspace, they targeted a group of Mendicant's ships. Ventral and dorsal weapons of all kinds opened fire, and the Flood controlled ships returned the favor. Particle cannons and mass driver shots tore through the alternate dimension as the ships blasted past each other at superluminal speeds, missiles detonated, filling the space with bright flashes of light and raw bursts of power that made the UNSC's vaunted NOVA bomb look like a child's firecracker.

_Focus on target six-niner-niner,_ Offensive Bias ordered. _Fire for effect!_

A torrent of energy weapons, slugs, and missiles targeted one of Mendicant's dreadnaughts. The ship twisted and evaded, performing snap turns that awed the people watching the flashback. Even then, despite jamming, point defense, and evasive maneuvers, bolts and rounds tore home. The ship was bracketed, and slammed by weapons fire. It slowly broke apart as more fire was poured onto it, spilling out atmosphere and fuel as it spun out of control and drifted helplessly. More shots targeted the crippled vessel, until its hull superheated and vaporized away. By the time the Sovereign and its escorts were done, nothing remained of the twenty kilometer long warship larger than a field mess kit.

_They are scattering and reverting to real space. Pursue, but be wary in event of ambush._ Offensive ordered.

The other A.I.'s and commanders responded with affirmatives, and then the Sovereign was back in the normal plane of reality. It pursued a frigate that opened fire with every gun and missile that it had. Offensive evaded the fire and returned with his own weapons as the frigate plunged into the heart of a hyper-massive blue star.

_Kill it,_ Admiral Dilianus ordered, tightening a fist.

Offensive opened fire with the Sovereign's main energy weapon batteries. The star seemed to rumble as the superluminal pulses slammed into it and tore through, before starting to collapse inward while a planar disk started to emerge around the equator. The Master Chief recognized the beginnings of a so called 'hypernova' as the star began to cook off and explode.

That blast would leave everything within light years shattered and uninhabitable, even if the Arrays weren't going beat it to the punch. A shudder twitched through John's spine as the frigate emerged from within the star, one engine smoking from where a bolt had hit it. Offensive wasted no time in destroying the craft completely, and then sucking the debris into Slip Space.

_Status report?_ the Admiral asked.

_Mendicant is becoming increasingly reckless, and our ships are proving superior. Enemy fleet outnumbers us approximately 58.9 to 1 now, but we are down to thirty percent of our original power,_ Offensive responded. _Collateral damage for the battle zone is nearing one hundred percent. Some of Mendicant's ships are breaking off and heading for the inner areas of the Maginot Sphere._

_It is acceptable,_ the Admiral responded soberly.

Time passed, and Didact finally emerged over the Ark. Like a lotus blossom, it floated in space. It was a piece of carved beauty, seven times the size of Earth. Didact stood up, and activated a slip space portal. As he went to step through it, though, he stiffened and drew his rifle. The Master Chief could feel it too; something was watching the Forerunner soldier.

_I see you, little Reclaimer,_ a deep voice rumbled. The Master Chief recognized it instantly: Gravemind.

_Reclaimer to Sovereign, Gravemind is aware of my presence,_ Didact responded.

_Then hurry up, Commander,_ Offensive Bias responded.

Didact complied, jetting through the portal and reappearing just outside of the temple in which the main controls were housed. The Master Chief wondered why he had not just appeared in the main room. Perhaps there was some sort of defensive measure that kept that from being possible? He wondered.

Snow was frozen in midair as Didact stared around and rushed for the main entrance.

_Why, Reclaimer… why do you resist the inevitable? Why do you continue this destructive course of action?_ Gravemind asked.

An image appeared in Didact's mind: Diana and his children.

_You doom them through your actions. They need not perish like this._

Didact ignored Gravemind and activated the primary doors for the temple, zipping through and then up. He didn't even bother with the elevator.

He moved past the holographic diagrams of the seven Halo rings, and over to the control panel at the far end of the room. Placing his rifle down next to him, he ran his hands over the system and quickly interfaced with it. It responded, moving the platform up, and bringing the system to life. In moments, it would be ready to fire.

Gravemind, sensing its defeat, screamed in rage.

_**There will be no more hate! No more envy! No more strife! No more fear! No more prejudice! No more—**_

_**Shut! Up!**_ Didact mentally roared, and slammed his armored fist down upon the activation key. A high pitched whine started to fill the area, along with a blinding light.

Detailed maps sprang into being, telling him of what was going on. The system was powered, the Arrays were firing. The maps of the galaxy showed it from all angles as it highlighted where the seven rings were. Then they burst out.

Arrays have fired. Pulse expanding along X, Y, and Z axis at approximately 2.1E19 times C. the read out stated. Real Time passed: .1 Seconds. Estimated infected/non-infected casualty count: 2.56E20 sentient life forms.

With a mixture what seemed to be painstaking slowness, and at the same time nightmarish speed, the maps depicted the expanding shockwaves.

Real Time passed: 25.3 seconds. Estimated infected/non-infected casualty count: 7.61E38 sentient life forms.

Didact typed in a series of coordinates, and one of the maps zoomed in on a small sector of the galaxy, just ahead of the rushing wave. It zoomed in again, showing a solar system with a main sequence star and nine planets. John recognized Sol. Then it zoomed in on Earth, focusing on Africa, right where New Mombasa would one day be built. Didact's hand reached out, as if to cup the Earth and shield it from the coming storm. As his fingers closed around it, the blast wave washed over the planet, and its life form count dropped to zero.

Real Time passed: 30.6 seconds. Estimated infected/non-infected casualty count: 4.5E41 sentient life forms.

The pulses reached the area where the Forerunner's last stand was taking place.

As the shockwaves washed over the battling fleets, the Flood forms were destroyed, falling dead as their host's nervous system decayed and fell apart in accelerated fashion. From his position on the bridge of the Sovereign, Admiral Dilianius uttered one final command.

_Gentlemen… ladies… and vaunted artificial intelligences of the military… the future generations of the galaxy will thank you for this. It has been an honor to serve alongside you, and to die by your sides. Farewell, everyone. See you on the other side._ He snapped to a salute as the blinding white light of the Array's pulse crashed into the Sovereign. When the light cleared, the Admiral was on the floor, his body decaying inside of his armor. Ships plunged forward blindly, carried on by their momentum now that they had no crews to control them. Or at least, Mendicant's did.

Offensive Bias played his trump card. In a flash, the psionically enhanced A.I. took control of the remains of the Forerunner fleet, including those ships that had been taken over by Mendicant. The rampant A.I. now had an enemy at every turn, even within his own ranks.

_What?_ Mendicant screeched. _What is this?_

Offensive's response was an icy stare. _My turn, Brother_.

Now that he no longer had to worry about the crews of his ships, Offensive took off the gloves. In a flash, he began to create Slip Space portals all over the battlefield. What few planets and stars were left after the Olympian shoot out were quickly caught in the grips of gravitational fluctuations that made black holes resemble calm eddies in a creek. Other energy fields came into play, and the Master Chief saw readouts on energy types, particles, neutrino types, and other such things that Humanity had yet to discover. Correction, he thought, rediscover. The battlefield became a scene from hell, as everything in proximity to the mass spawned portals was destroyed in every way it was possible to be destroyed… and a few that were theoretically impossible.

Offensive's viable ships now outnumbered Mendicant's ten to one, and the overwhelming majority of his ships were dreadnaughts. John swore he could feel the rampant A.I.'s fear now that he was cut off from the Gravemind, the great entity temporarily silenced. Offensive gave no quarter. Just as his name indicated, he battled with aggression that had been held back this whole time.

He targeted the handful of remaining dreadnaughts that Mendicant had, and ravaged them from extreme range, while lighter vessels such as frigates and destroyers jumped in and opened up with everything they had from two light seconds off.

It was all over in three minutes of real time. Every last one of Mendicant's ships lay in ruins. Offensive destroyed them all, left nothing larger than a speck of dust before blasting the remains into the alternate dimension. There lay before him one final ship. A Keyship, kept for ramming and boarding purposes. Mendicant had retreated there, but the vessel's FTL system had been disabled by the fighting, and a number of its weapons and computer systems had been damaged.. Offensive's remaining fleet hovered before the craft, and for many moments, what must have been a lifetime for the A.I., it did noting.

_Commander, are you there?_ he asked suddenly.

_Reclaimer here… go ahead, Offensive,_ Didact responded.

_I am officially requesting permission to carve out the central behavior matrix of Mendicant Bias. I believe that there may yet be some of him we can save._ The coldness seemed to be gone from the A.I.'s 'voice.' Instead, there was resignation, a sense of loss, almost. It made John raise his eyebrow.

_Why request permission of me?_ Didact inquired.

_Because, Reclaimer, you are the last ranking member of the military left alive._ Offensive responded, as if it was the simplest answer in the world.

Didact stumbled and fell to one knee, as if the shock of what had happened had just finally been processed by his brain.

_Do it. There's been enough death for a hundred lifetimes today… for a thousand lifetimes,_ Didact said. The Master Chief could see him shuddering, but he did not break down.

_I cannot help but wonder if he would do the same for me, were our positions reversed._ Offensive stated.

_The old Mendicant?_ Didact asked, and images flashed before his mind of the centuries that he had spent working with the other A.I. _Without a moment's hesitation._

_That is what I would like to believe, Commander. It is why I do what I do now. I want my brother back._

The scene changed, when they were at the Ark, standing around a computer control station. Offensive's avatar was hovering out of a holographic post, and he was remotely controlling a number of machines.

_There. Done,_ he said. _Now all we have to do is wait, and hope for the best._ There was a pause. _Sir, what now?_

_Gravemind is silenced, the Parasite destroyed. We have 'won.' But at a high cost, Offensive._ Didact crossed his arms over his chest. He bowed his helmeted head and leaned back against the console. _Our civilization is doomed. Too many minds were lost. Too much data corrupted or stolen away. The foundations of what we were is gone. It's only a matter of time before we start to forget._ Didact clenched a fist. _But, by whatever shred of goodness is left in this miserable reality, this will not be the end!_

_Sir?_ Offensive looked over at him, and his hologram raised an eyebrow.

_It will be long, and it will be difficult, Offensive, but time is something we have now. We will reseed these worlds. We will watch over the young of the races we saved. We will build them up, and one day, things shall be as they were before the Parasite invaded._ His fist shook, and Didact was panting heavily.

The computer next to them beeped, and a message camp up. It was a readout on Mendicant. John scanned it, and news wasn't good. Too much of Mendicant's behavior core had been damaged in the battle. He was fractured now, suffering from what was essentially the A.I. equivalents of a multiple personality disorder and mental retardation as his damaged data matrixes tried to piece his mind back together.

_Another casualty… _Didact thought. He interfaced with the computer, and erected algorithmic cells and security walls around Mendicant's remnants, sealing his shattered being off from the rest of the systems of the Ark. _Goodbye, my old friend. Good bye._

Offensive remained silent, but looking at the figure in the holo tank, it was evident to the Spartan that for all his cold and calculating ways, the younger A.I. was taking this pretty hard. His face was twisted into a mask of grief, and he bowed his head low.

The Spartan racked his brains, wondering how this was the end of Mendicant. He knew the A.I., had seen its actions during his time on the Ark. It had seemed quite sane then. Had he managed to fix himself in the hundred thousand years since someone had set foot there? Or was it something else? Could it be, perhaps, that the Keyship that the Covenant had discovered and that the Prophet of Truth had used as his flagship could have been that very ship that Mendicant had sought refuge on? Had there been part of his consciousness that had been severed when the ship had been damaged?

Another voice seemed to echo in the Master Chief's mind. Something he hadn't understood until then. Mendicant's logs in the Halo database. His remarks about being made whole once more, about turning on yet another master, his promise that he wanted atonement, that he would 'keep the path level and safe.' The Spartan had assumed it to be an old log, erroneously copied over into the Halo's database. But if that was the case… could it be that Mendicant had not only restored himself, but had helped Guilty Spark keep the Halo intact until they could get away?

The path around he, Orna, and Johnson had certainly been falling apart the whole way back to the Dawn, but for some reason, the one that they chose never suddenly exploded, or fell apart with a groan as the planet sized installation shook itself to pieces. Now it all made sense. Mendicant had been keeping them safe, sheltering them. Was it possible, he wondered, for the A.I. to have survived the resulting calamity, then? If he was on the Ark, remotely aiding the Halo ring, it just might be possible. He'd have to have a chat with Helm after this was all over.

"That was merely the beginning," the Avatar stated as all went black, and the lights of the room came back on. "It was not long after that that I discovered magic, and shortly thereafter, transcended to a God. But things were far from over." Helm gestured to a door, which opened. "Move along through there. There are some items I need to give you that will help you in the coming days. I'll be along shortly."

Everyone nodded, and quietly exited. John went last, acting as rear guard. As he was passing through the door, his enhanced hearing picked up a quiet noise. He looked back over his shoulder, and saw Helm standing there. There was an image of a woman there, Diana. His gauntleted fingers once again reached out, but simply passed through the hologram. The Avatar let out another quiet sob, and fell to his knees. He drove his fist into the floor and let out a barely muffled scream of agony.

The Spartan retreated through the door, leaving Helm to his mourning. It seemed that even Gods could be only Human.

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Well, there it is. Hope it wasn't too bad. Next chapters will be away to animedragongirl shortly.

I'll go back to hunkering in my NBC bunker now.

Hope you all enjoyed it, and have a great day.


	19. Chapter 18:Strategy, Well They Just Rush

Hello again, everyone. I know it's been a while, and I did not answer reviews like I normally do. I apologize for that, and will try to make amends in the next chapter. Things have been a tad hectic over the summer. I was able to secure an internship that kept me quite busy, and when I wasn't working on that, I was helping my brother with his Eagle Scout project. I've recently moved back over to Jacksonville, only to find that my bookstore at my law school apparently had to declare Chapter 11 bankruptcy over the summer (not sure why, given that they charge so much for my books that the amount I had to pay when getting my Bachelors feels like lunch money in comparison), and it's been a mad scramble to secure my books and prep for the first day of school. Which happens to be tomorrow. I hope you understand, and I again apologize.

Regarding the chapter itself: I feel the need to point out that this story is coming from a rough draft that I actually began working on back in 2007, and the draft itself is still not quite finished. As such, there is an element in here that I added upon seeing the unit layout for Halo Wars, which turned out to be quite different in the final product. I hope you won't mind. I've also decided to add a few things to the arsenal that I felt were strangely lacking, which I hope you won't mind either.

That said, here, at long last, is chapter 18. Musical influences include One Thousand Ships, Hrimfaxi, and the Halo 2's Mjolnir remix. Another influence (though I'm not sure how healthy a one) is the Curbstomp Song, composed by an acquaintance of mine, some of the lyrics of which actually compose the title of this chapter (yeah, long story).

At any rate:

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**Chapter Eighteen- Strategy, Well They Just Rush**

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The Master Chief stood ramrod straight as he awaited Helm's arrival. There were a few minutes of silence among the groups, as everyone tried to realize that they'd just been told. A God had just revealed to them all that not only was he responsible for the sudden arrival of the _Forward Unto Dawn_ and the Covenant to this strange world, but that he himself was none other than the Forerunner who had activated the Halo Arrays and purged the Milky Way of life.

The Master Chief stared around at the room he was in. Strange devices, tomes, and melee weapons hung upon walls and were nestled away in bookshelves. Helm had mentioned that they were to receive aid. He was curious, though, as to what exactly the god meant.

The cyborg didn't have to wait more than a few minutes to find out his answer, as Helm's Avatar walked in through the door.

"I apologize for the delay," he said as he walked around to a table. "I'll make this swift. You'll want to mount your assaults as swiftly as possible."

"Assaults?" Orna said.

"Luskan and Mithril Hall," the Master Chief said. "If Helm is right, and the magic of this world is in upheaval due to the Gods and Goddesses being cast down, we have an edge. One we need to exploit while they're still reeling and disoriented."

"The Spartan is correct," Helm said, nodding sagely. "That is what I have to offer you. Complete maps of Luskan and the Hosttower, as well as ones of Mithril Hall… among other things." The Avatar gestured and a series of parchments turned back to face the group. A series of tomes levitated and moved over as well. "These are a series of spellbooks. I believe your computer has expressed interest in learning about magic, and learning how best to counter it."

Everyone nodded. Next came a weapon, a vicious looking war axe. The Master Chief noted that it was made of that 'Adamantine' material, judging by its molecular make-up. The blade was also incredibly sharp. It floated down in front of Bruenor Battlehammer, and the Dwarven King let out a breath as he stared at the weapon. The Master Chief understood the reaction. Dwarves were craftsmen, they dedicated their whole lives to it, and it made sense that he would appreciate great craftsmanship.

"Ragnarök. Once, long ago, one of my greatest champions wielded this blade. It has a long history of striking fear and terror into the hearts of those who skitter in the shadows. Take it with my blessing." the Avatar said.

Bruenor nodded, but said nothing. Carefully, he reached out and grasped the weapon around its handle, and then ran his hand up and down the leather wrapped grip. He took an experimental swing with it, and John swore he heard the axe sing as it cut through the air. With an air of reverence, the Dwarf reached down and placed it carefully into his belt.

Helm nodded, and then continued. "Commander Keyes, there is little that I can give you that your allies will not soon provide you with. There is, however, something that I can teach you." He turned his back to them and walked over to another book that he had set up on a small pedestal.

"As you may have noticed during my memories and during your travels here, the human mind has a great aptitude for the arcane and the psychic, if only it is applied in the proper direction." The Avatar picked the book up and carried it back over to them. "I regret that I cannot teach you about the more… offensive applications of the mind, that requires years of properly attuning oneself. However," he raised a finger, "your long years on the field of battle have hardened your minds and taught you to sense what cannot be seen. This book contains techniques to further your mental defenses and prevent unfriendly entities from trying to poke around inside of your heads." His finger tapped against the sallet on his head.

"Know also, as you plan your attacks, that my other Avatar has been busy," he turned back around and stared at them, and the Master Chief somehow knew that there was a smile on the other end of that sallet. "I have blessed and sanctified the weapons and ammunition material onboard your ship. I do not know how much comfort that can give you, but it will make the weapons a bane to all who follow the path of evil." Helm looked down for a moment, "I will do my best to aid you further as the needs arise. I owe you that much."

"We will begin planning immediately." Keyes said.

* * *

The Master Chief and Sergeant Johnson moved down one of the Dawn's corridors and emerged into the Motor Pool. The Neo-Covenant soldiers and the natives that were with them stood around waiting. It was time for the final briefing. Commander Keyes had been conferring with Cortana, Lord Nasher, and King Bruenor about the best course of action. Thus far, it had been decided to first launch an assault upon Luskan, and nip that problem in the bud, before turning their attention towards Mithril Hall.

The Spartan was looking forward to the battle. He had a new addition that Commander Tarkimee had brought along, curtsey of Rtas: the plans for a UNSC compatible cloaking device. From what he had been able to research on the occult here in Torril, the art of invisibility was nothing new, but the spells usually only allowed for careful movements. Anything else could disrupt the EM fields that allowed for light bending. This would be something the wizards would likely not expect.

Cortana claimed that she had also been fiddling around with some spare parts in the Dawn's supply caches, and had a 'gift' for him and Johnson.

A series of holotanks had been set up next to the wall, and on them, the Master Chief could see a metal table off to one side. On it was a small group of rifles and several ammo drums. Curious, he approached the table, and looked to see what these guns were, and why they were on open display. Cortana popped up in one of the holotanks next to the table, smiling at him, but remaining silent and still other than that.

Upon arriving, the Master Chief stared down at the strange weapon before him. It brought to mind images from his old history class, of a French made AR known as the FAMAS. There were some differences, however. The body of the weapon was thicker, similar to the hefty build of the MA assault rifle series, while magazine coupling had been moved further forward into a standard position, rather than bullpup style. The carrying/mounting rail had been extended and a scope mounted on top of it, and the forward portion of the barrel lined with additional mounting rails, three of which were occupied. The undersided one held a tactical foregrip, the left one a rangefinder, and the right one a secondary smart link for his HUD. Deciding to take a more personal examination of the device, the Spartan picked it up.

The gun felt slightly heavy for an assault rifle, however, and he disconnected the drum magazine and stared down at it. He paused for a moment, as instead of the standard NATO rounds, a collection of brass and red tubes met his eyes: shotgun rounds. He was holding a scatter-gun. He stared up at Cortana, but didn't say a word.

"Like it?" she asked. He cocked his head to one side, and she nodded. "I call it the ASG-60. I've been doing research through the history archives, and I've had a few designs that I've been wanting to try out. The weapon you are carrying should prove pretty useful when charging through the Hosttower. As you noticed, its standard configuration, has a fifty round mag, and fires three different kinds of shells." She held up a hand with her index finger extended. "The standard wide spread, eight gauge magnum high brass of the M-90, as well as its explosive shells," she ticked off a second finger, before turning to face a black and gold shell that was sitting on the table, "and these little babies."

The Master Chief picked up the shell, and looked over at Johnson who was likewise examining his own 'ASG-60.' It was a high brass shell, heavier than the standard. He flipped it over and looked at the underside. The standard series of numbers and letters denoting its gauge and usage met his eyes, but what confused him was one small set of letters: FCH-FRAG.

He placed the weapon down on the table and continued to handle the shell trying to figure out what Cortana was playing at here. The A.I. giggled slightly, and disappeared. In her place, a series of fragments appeared, and the Master Chief stared at them. He recognized the rough design, or at least he thought he did. They resembled flechette rounds. The military had experimented with those a while back, but they weren't effective for much more than breeching rounds due to being sensitive to the combat environment and the flechettes having momentum transfer problems. However, a flechette shell should have been lighter than the standard ones, not heavier. Something was up here.

"An experiment," Cortana's disembodied voice said, and the diagram began to break apart and show different sections of the fragments. "The flechette rounds can best be thought of as a miniaturized APFSDS. The depleted uranium outer casing surrounds a 'pineappled' core. Upon contact with the target, the outer casing's momentum transfer sheers it off, releasing the core after the fragment has already penetrated. Due to the weakened casing, the core then fragments and breaks up inside of the target."

The Master Chief was tempted to wince upon hearing that. A round like that would turn a target's insides into something more commonly associated with a meat processing plant.

"Muzzle velocity and spreading?" he asked, placing the fragments back where the Dawn's machinery could grab them and reassemble the shell.

"Muzzle velocity is just under nine hundred MPS, and the scattering is less than that of the standard, due to the round's profile. It's still capable of turning a human being into hamburger meat at a hundred and seventy meters."

"Love at first sight," Johnson whispered softly, and caressed the shotgun. "Please tell me I get to use this soon."

"Just as soon as we're done planning," Keyes said, walking in with Bruenor and the other leaders. In her hand she held a portable holo-generator, upon which Lord Nasher could be seen. "Lord Nasher, is the signal going through properly? Can you see us?" she asked.

"Perfectly, Commander," the Lord of Neverwinter responded in his baritone voice. "Show me what your plan is."

"With pleasure," Miranda stated, placing the generator on a table in front of the Motor Pool's main holotank. She then brought up a holographic map of Luskan, as if it were viewed from a satellite. A series of scales and multi-colored highlights appeared. "We've decided to split the strike force into three separate teams, codenamed Shadow, Striker, and Barricade respectively." Force deployment holograms became displayed, showing Shadow in a dark blue format, Striker in gold, and Barricade in red.

"Shadow will be our infiltration team, under the command of Spartan-117, code named Sierra for this mission. Accompanying him will be Orna Fullsamee, N'tho, Usze, and an additional six man combat team composed of Commander Tarkimee's best troops. Assisting as a scout and arcane seeker will be agent Neeshka," Keyes said, and with a nod, Cortana zoomed the map in on the Hosttower, flipping the map around and dissecting the various areas of it, taken from the maps that Helm had provided.

"Shadow is to infiltrate and assault the Hosttower, our primary objective, via the roof and work their way down. Ladies and gentlemen, your goal is simple here: the so called Time of Troubles has left our enemies without the ability to call on their arcane skills. We're going to kick them between the legs as hard as we can before they get those skills back." Keyes smiled viciously. "If it moves, kill it. Top priority goes to arcmagi, who should be identifiable by their robes." The display cleared to show a series of brightly colored robes: one purple, one blue, one brown, one red. "Those who surrender are to be subdued and brought in for questioning by Lord Nasher's Many-Starred cloaks."

"A question, commander," Lord Nasher spoke up. "How exactly are you to 'ingress' through the _top_ of the tower? The Hosttower has no entrances at that level, save for teleporting, and with the Weave in the state that it's in right now…" he trailed off with a frown.

"We make our own entrance." Keyes snapped her fingers, and machinery groaned to life. The far end of the Motor Pool lit up, revealing mechanical arms and powerful magnets at work. What was coming out of it bore a vague resemblance to a Scorpion MBT, but sported a larger turret, lower profile, heavier treads and armor plating, more machine guns, and a cannon barrel with a bore that was half again as wide as the M-808.

Orna and the other Elites shuddered where they stood. It was a Rhino, a newly developed heavy assault tank that the Humans had deployed on Earth in a last ditch defense effort. The newly christened Ascetic had never seen one of them in action, but he had read reports. Those things could core a Wraith, Phantom, and supposedly even go toe to toe with Scarabs. Why hadn't Keyes deployed that on the Ark? Had she been afraid of losing it? It was certainly a possibility, given that the tank would represent a high value target and the Brutes might have been willing to use orbital bombardment to remove it from the picture.

"Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to have the pleasure of introducing the HA-227 'Rhino' heavy assault tank." Keyes said as the tank was placed upon the ground. Then she turned to Johnson. "Sergeant, you've always had a way with words when it comes to this sort of thing. Take it away."

"Lords, ladies, aliens, and miscellaneous other entities, allow me to present the final word in ground combat," Johnson said, taking out his final cigar and chewing on it. "This here is eighty one tons of death dealing, man-at-arms squashing, divine intervention. Its four separate suspension tread mounts make it capable of sustained seventy five kilometer per hour speeds over rough terrain, and the Rhino sports the latest in UNSC reactive armor, electromagnetic armor, point defense interception, smoke, chaff, and thermal flare grenades, ECM warfare, and computer targeting. The Mark-Two-Six Gregori miniaturized reactor core powers the computer systems, allows for A.I. remote interface, and helps to aim, power, and stabilize the MAC gun on the business end of it." On cue, Cortana took control of the tank and swiveled the barrel about, though she did not point it anywhere near the group. "This baby's dial-a-yield magnetic accelerator field can throw a thirty-five kilo DU slug at nearly forty six KPS, and is backed by a money back guarantee to absolutely ruin the day of the poor, sorry bastard in the crosshairs. In short, we at the UNSC are proud to demonstrate our continuing commitment to excellence in fields of ground combat, kicking ass, and taking names."

A faint gulp was heard from several Elites, and the Sergeant Major smiled before stepping back.

"Striker team is to move in from the north of the city, and fight their way to the harbor. Once there, you are to secure the warships." Miranda paused and glanced around at everyone present. "Remember, we want a minimum of collateral damage here. Neverwinter and the other members of the Lord's Alliance are hurting for capable warships after their last few wars with Luskan. We need at least seventy five percent of these boats intact. We do not need half vaporized wrecks. Commander Tarkimee is to lead this assault team, along with half the remaining Sangheili, Sergeant Johnson, and sixty Unggoy support troops."

"Finally, Barricade will be lead by Sub-commander Zaris Mulasee," Keyes nodded towards a red armored Sangheili major. "This will be the largest task force, and your role will be to make a line for the center of the city and tie up the Luskan military. You are to engage and destroy every barracks you see, but attempt to preserve infrastructure where it is possible. Assisting in this matter will be the remaining Sangheili, the majority of the Unggoy under the command of sub-commander Gazap," he nodded towards the white armored Grunt. "Heavy fire support is Denos and Lotar." The two Hunters rumbled softly. "Vehicular assets will consist of transport and anti-infantry warthogs, the Rhino, Specters, Shadows, and Cortana will be flying top support in addition to operating the Rhino itself. We move out in fifteen minutes, so gear up. Estimated travel time is four hours, and our assault is scheduled to begin at two-thirty hours."

"Move out!" Tarkimee barked, and then began issuing further orders. As always, the place descended into organized chaos as weapons were readied, grenade bandoliers slapped on, medpacks and biofoam carefully packed and stored.

There was a tenseness in the air. They were going on the offensive again, and this would be no mere raid against a glorified slaver party. This would be a full scale attack upon a massive military target. Enemy force projections put the Luskan military at no less than sixteen thousand. The Master Chief and the others had read up on the history of the place, from the information that Neeshka had provided and the annals of Lord Nasher's history scrolls. Luskan soldiers were power hungry, ambitious, and lacked the focusing loyalty and dedication to their jobs that UNSC Marines or even the Trebuchet rebels. However, when backed into a corner and fighting for their lives, only a fool considered a foe harmless, no matter how cowardly or ill equipped. He'd seen enough Grunts turn themselves into living bombs to know that better than most.

The Spartan loaded up his ASG-60, grabbing two magazines of standard widespread, one of flechette rounds, and one of explosive. These were supplemented by a BR-55 with two magazines of AP and shredder rounds, and underslung GDS, and an M6D with three clips. Four fragmentary and plasma grenades went over his right shoulder. His last act of preparation was to slip a few canisters of biofoam into his supply belt, and then he was ready.

He looked over to Sergeant Johnson, who was still smiling. The Helljumper was as eager for battle as he was. Both were soldiers, and the ennui of peace was getting to them. It was time to earn their keep.

Orna slid his plasma sword handles into their holsters, and made certain that he had plenty of spare power cells for his plasma rifles, before looking over at Usze and N'tho. The two Rangers had their mandibles spread wide in a grin as they put on their helmets and tested their jetpacks. The other Sangheili, now prepared, began to sing and chant. Lines from their family battle poems filled the air with haunting lyrics as each boasted of the deeds of their forefathers, and their own deeds that would be woven in when their time came to leave this mortal coil.

The Lek'golo joined in a moment later, their deep, unearthly voices vibrating the floor and reverberating off the walls. Then, surprisingly, came the Unggoy. Their higher pitched voices added conflict and a strange harmony as they prepped pistols, rifles, and plasma cannons.

* * *

At two hundred hours, the combined Neo-Covenant and UNSC forces stood ready and waiting. The city had been effectively flanked, with the Rhino stationed along the eastern hills, approximately seventeen kilometers outside the walls of the city with two warthogs as support escorts. From this angle, Cortana and the others had not only a perfect view of the Hosttower, but also of two primary military barracks. The hundred and twenty millimeter MAC was locked onto the top of the structure, ready to fire a kinetic kill slug and rip it open. Striker and Barricade teams would rush in about ten seconds after the first shot had been fired, overwhelming the hopefully confused night watch guards and then methodically making their way towards their objectives.

Night and thermal vision would give them an almost overwhelming advantage in the near pitch blackness of the night. Fate, or perhaps a slightly more direct entity, had blessed them. The sky was thick with a brewing winter storm, which hid the light of the stars and the moon. The colder weather would also be affecting the guards more, but their foes would either be immune to it due to their sealed armor, or in the case of the Unggoy, by this being their natural environment.

Now all there was to do was to wait.

The tension before the battle was always the worst, the Master Chief thought. Once it began, once the adrenaline kicked in, things were always moving too fast to be worried, or to at least dwell on fear.

Slowly the seconds ticked by. Dry lips were licked, and liquids swallowed to avoid dehydration during the battle.

As one, all of the digital readouts, clocks, and chronometers snapped to two thirty.

"Initiate!" Keyes ordered.

Even as the words were leaving her mouth, Cortana had already sent the signals to the appropriate pieces of machinery, and the Rhino fired. A white hot slug of depleted uranium streaked across the landscape. It took it under half a second to reach the Hosttower. The round slammed into the side and penetrated clean through. Momentum transferred throughout the structure, and enchanted metal, stone, and wood shrieked as if in agony, before warping, splintering, and shattering.

Video feedback was broadcasted via holo tanks to where Lord Nasher and the other natives were watching, hundreds of kilometers away from the battle. Their eyes widened in shock and awe as they watched the mighty Hosttower of the Arcane Brotherhood utterly torn asunder, to fall and break apart upon the ground, some seven hundred feet below. The full upper third of the tower had been removed by the strike. Never before had they witnessed such devastation.

The Master Chief, on the other hand, was rather impressed. For dealing with a technology level that they were at, that building held together incredibly well. Two seconds later, he found out that such construction methods, whatever they were, seemed to be limited to the tower itself. Cortana had lined up the first barracks and fired a high explosive round into it. The sonic overpressure of the round and its resulting impact and explosion utterly destroyed the barracks and kicked a cloud of dust, rocks, soil, and other material up into the sky. Moments later, the second one suffered a similar fate.

The two Pelicans streaked down towards the city, their thrusters shoving them through the air at incredible speeds.

"Striker going hot!" he heard Johnson shout. Over the command channel, the Master Chief heard the sounds of particle rifle fire as the Sangheili marksmen took out the night guards at the northern gate. He opened up a channel for video feedback, and watched via his HUD as the rose up and stormed forward. A fuel rod gun was fired, and the gate was reduced to vaporized wood and slagged steel puddles when it impacted. Luskan was open and ripe for the taking.

Barricade moved in after them, holding their fire until they attracted the attention of a juicy target.

The Master Chief refocused as they came upon the Tower. The Pelican quickly spun around and hovered fifteen feet above the shattered remnants of the highest floor. Scans indicated it was secure, and would hold even his massive weight. He made a final check to the ASG-60, currently loaded with standard magnum ammo, and activated his cloaking system. As he faded into a blur he reached out and grabbed Neeshka. The Tiefling gave a word of sharp protest, but they were already airborne. He slammed into the floor, crunching tiles underneath his feet and setting the Tiefling down.

Nothing was alive up here. Splattered remains of what had once been people could be seen dripping down off of the walls along with tattered fragments of what had once been cloaks and robes.

"Feel anything?" he asked Neeshka, staring back at here as cloaked Elites began landing all around them.

"A faint bit of magic's down below us, probably nothing major. I warn you though, I could be wrong about this due to everything going haywire." She said as she nervously twirled her blades.

"We'll just have to trust you, then," Orna said, his voice calm and warm. "Sierra, orders?"

"I'm on point, fall in behind, and protect our guide. Monitor fields of fire and make use of suppressive devices when able." John said over their private comm line. Then he moved towards the stairs. He wasn't overly swift, but there was no sense trying to be too stealthy.

He descended down the stairs, and in front of him was a very disoriented pair of magi, both of them holding their heads. Judging from the blood oozing out of their ears they were likely incapable of hearing anything. They didn't look overly important either. The relatively plain robes indicated that they were just out of their apprenticeship. The ASG-60 was set to single shot, and as close as they were, one was all it would take. They never even saw the invisible soldier as he leveled the shotgun and pulled the trigger.

The weapon kicked against the Master Chief's shoulder, and a spray of uranium pellets left the gun doing mach three. A moment later, the Spartan's boot descended upon the shredded bowels and organs of the two and continued to sweep the hallways. His motion sensor was going crazy, and he supposed one relief of having to enter this way was that he knew that there was nothing above him.

The Spartan moved down the steps with a stealth and grace that belied his weight. He moved at a crouch, his shotgun held out in front of him. He snapped the weapon about, checking likely hiding spots. This weapon was somewhat loud. If anyone down here had retained the ability to hear what was going on, they'd know the jig was up. Fortunately, the same case met him here that had upon what was now the roof.

There were easily twenty magi here, bleeding from their ears, noses, and eye sockets. Some stumbled about while others remained on the ground unmoving. Biometeric sensors indicated that five of the bodies were dead, but there were three who were still alive.

"Shadow team two, move up on my flank, prepare to secure the unconscious ones," he said. The Sangheili winked acknowledgement lights, and the Spartan's sensitive hearing could detect the sounds of their booted feet on the staircase.

The Master Chief moved forward, checking for hidden passages or tunnels or some other means of evacuating this area. He found none. Satisfied that the survivors had nowhere to run, he sighted up a pair who were trying to help each other limp to one of the lower levels. The shotgun blast ripped them both to pieces. Some of the wizards were apparently not quite stone deaf, and the loud booming of the shotgun got their attention.

Their eyes darted about wildly as they tried to find out where the attack had came from. One saw a blur move in the darkness, and attempted to call out of his brethren. He had a split second sensation of fiery pain before everything went black.

The Master Chief moved forward, firing methodically as the Sangheili entered the fray. When it was over, twenty five lay dead.

* * *

As Shadow worked their way down, Sergeant Johnson and the Striker team moved into the city. There were a few patrol patterns that they had spotted, and they timed their movement to intercept as many of them as were possible. This would induce fear and terror into the ranks of those who were meant to try and retake the docks, seeing all the bodies lying about, and make them move cautiously. That would in turn give Striker more time to set up the first phase of their defense.

The Sergeant Major raised his ASG slightly as a troop formation emerged from the backstreets to find out what all the commotion was. He fired off three shots, and a number of soldiers fell as their chain mail and leather armor was shredded by the high speed pellets. Tarkimee was right by his side, leveling a plasma gun and sending out short controlled bursts. The Sangheili's incredible strength enabled him to keep the weapon from bucking too much in his hand as supersonic plasma tore into the Luskan ranks. Within seconds, the twenty man patrol was nothing but cooling bodies and parts.

"Press forward!" Tarkimee ordered. "Alpha team, branch over to the next street, Gamma, head southwest, bearing two-four-zero, UAV is detecting massing enemy forces there. Use of heavy weapons authorized!"

Various HUD feedbacks from multiple orbiting UNSC UAVs began to broadcast there data and information towards the attacking teams. Barricade was moving forward, with Lotar and Denos methodically firing their assault cannons at anything remotely resembling a military patrol. Screams were echoing throughout the night, and Sergeant Johnson knew that if anyone was still asleep after this, they were about to get a rude awakening.

Movement in a second story window caught the sergeant's eye. Thermal graphics indicated to him that it was human, but it was a hundred meters off, and it couldn't identify if it was military or civilian, he raised his ASG, holding fire until he could zoom his smart-link scope in and get a better look. As it hit 10X, he was able to make out a much cooler object orienting itself, a crossbow. He didn't hesitate another moment. The shotgun roared and the target disintegrated before the onslaught, becoming little more than a hot smear upon the back of the wall.

More bodies spilled out of the lower stories. They didn't appear to be Luskan military, but there was no denying that they were armed as they charged towards the group. The Sergeant Major and his Neo-Covenant allies performed the standard operation procedure of such a situation: shoot first, ask questions second.

Johnson refocused on the waypoint indicator on his HUD.

"Harbor, three hundred and twenty meters," he stated and looked up at the ammo counter for his weapon. Twenty five shells left in this magazine—plenty to go around.

"UAV Epsilion detects incoming Luskan platoon. Distance of sixty meters. Bearing Southeast, one-six-eight. ETA is eight seconds," Cortana said.

The offending platoon charged out only to be met with hellacious counter fire. They were down in seconds.

"Shadow team reports five secured prisoners," Keyes said from her position onboard the second Pelican. "Sierra reports one confirmed arcmagi kill."

"Status on Barricade?" Tarkimee asked.

"Moving forward, they are approaching the heart of the city," the Commander responded.

Johnson saw a map of Luskan appear in the upper right corner of his ODST armor. It zoomed in and highlighted a large central market area. The Sergeant Major understood: wide open forum area, large enough to park their specter assault vehicles and give them a good field of fire, while the low overhangs would let Sangheili troopers get up onto the second stories and provide high ground covering fire. The grunts would support the two Hunters as they blew any Luskan soldier dumb enough to come at them straight to hell.

Further, the river that ran through town would be to their back, this meant that any flanking attempts would have to come down the bridges. Sergeant Johnson suspected that the Luskan troops would know about narrow causeways and how they favored the superior combatant, but they would know nothing of the horrors that a killzone of that nature presented to troops armed with high powered, automatic energy weaponry. He almost felt sorry for the poor sods.

Almost.

One hundred and fifty meters until they emerged into the harbor. The guard patrols were relatively thin. After all, it was five hours till dawn this far north, and the outside temperature was close to negative thirty degree Celsius. Who in their right mind would want to cause trouble now? Once there, it was simply a matter of holding the fort until Shadow could finish its job and Barricade could mop the floor with enough Luskan blood to force them to surrender.

Cortana gave warning of three platoons of troops that had formed up just to the right of the main harbor entrance. Tarkimee held his forces back for a few seconds, and ordered his spec-ops commando squad forward. Grunts and Elites alike faded into blurs and moved through the darkness of the alleyways. They showed up brighter on Johnson's thermal gear, but he knew that his opponents were not blessed with such equipment.

Seconds later, chaos opened among the Luskan ranks as twelve different plasma weapons opened up on the platoons, raking them with weapons fire.

"Move!" Tarkimee ordered.

The commandos had flanked the troops prior to assault them, and now the platoons were scrambling back across the main entrance. Hammer descended upon anvil, and the trap closed. Johnson leveled his ASG and fired into a group of men-at-arms. Arms were shredded and torsos reduced to bloody ruins as the high powered buckshot did its job. He fired two more and five men fell. Others were hit by fire from plasma rifles and needlers. A man's head was vaporized by one shot, while another shot seven times by a needler going full auto. The crystals resonated with one another, and a pink-purple explosion reduced the man to flying shards of crystal, steel, and meat. Two of his comrades that were standing too close to him were shredded by the ensuing shrapnel.

A trio of well placed plasma grenades finished the job. What few soldiers remained were in no condition to fight.

"Commander Keyes," Tarkimee said as he walked into the harbor, searching around for more targets. "What is the course of action in regards to prisoners of the rank and file?"

"They're a snag we don't need," she responded. "Get what you can from them and eliminate them."

The Sangheili commander nodded and walked up to what appeared to be a sergeant of types, judging by his heavier armor. The man was moaning and clutching at the remnants of his right leg. With a single hand the Elite reached down and ripped the man up. He growled softly. The intel they had received from the Ascetic indicated that the local population thought them a subspecies of otherworldly demon. No sense in not using such a vast psychological advantage.

"Tell me what you know about the defenses of this place." He pulled the man in close to where his nose was practically touching the Elite's helmet. "In the event of enemy assault, what are your counter attack plans?"

"Oh gods…." The captive man breathed. He brought his hands up to his neck and grappled with the fist that held him, but his strength was no match for the alien that held him.

"What are you counter attack plans?" Tarkimee virtually roared, drawing a plasma blade and activating it. He pressed the blade to where the end of it was just against the human's throat. The leather gorget that surrounded it began to smoke and hiss and the man cried out.

"Captain Taerl is to take command of his battalion and rush the port in the event of its falling into enemy hands," the captive gasped.

Tarkimee moved the blade slightly away from his throat, just enough for the human to feel more comfortable. "What of your tactics? How does he intend to do this?"

"Troops are to be brought in through both harbor entrances, while archers take the roofs and the Arcane Brotherhood provides support."

The Sangheili commander nodded. Sound combat doctrine, if hampered by the lack of magical capabilities, and the fact that the Arcane Brotherhood had problems of their own. Still, they had means of dealing with such an assault.

"We are not without mercy. I will ease your passing." Tarkimee growled, and then impaled the man on the blade.

The blade's temperature was hot enough that any nerves surrounding the area of the blade's entry would die instantly, death would be as painless as they came. Plasma fire echoed throughout the harbor as the rest of the troops dispatched the wounded and the dying Humans.

Tarkimee frowned as he looked about. It was unsettling. He had just been informed, not twenty four hours prior, that the Humans that he had so gleefully did battle against and the Forerunners that he had so fervently worshipped were one in the same, and here he was, killing them again. How much things changed, how much they stayed the same.

"Not easy, I know," he heard Johnson say, and he turned to look at the Helljumper. "You just got to remind yourself that these ones are looking to make an easy time and a quick profit at the expense of their fellow men. To them, life is cheap." The Human sighed. "Remind yourself, big guy, that for every one of these soldiers that you kill, you're saving more lives than your taking."

The Elite cocked his head to one side. There was logic to what the Helljumper was saying. "I see," he said.

"Good. Now let's roll out the welcome mat," Johnson growled.

Tarkimee began to bark orders to his troops. Heavy plasma cannons were set up, squad level automatic weapons double checked, and a pair of UNSC eighty one millimeter mortars taken from the Elites that were carrying them and readied. They synched up with two of the hovering UAVs and prepared to unleash hell at the first sign of enemy counter assaults.

High Captain Jonas Baram swore and cursed as he tried to get his men to move forward. He had been afraid of something like this. He was one of the few who had been entrusted with the knowledge that the arcane brotherhood was virtually powerless at the moment. An assault upon the Hosttower was not unexpected, but the vector of it was. He had expected Neverwinter, Waterdeep, or one of the other members of the Lord's Alliance. Perhaps even an assault from King Bruenor of Clan Battlehammer. The Dwarves were certainly audacious enough, and had had some bad dealings with Luskan in the past, despite their tentative trade alliances. But demons? No, nothing in his battle plans had accounted for that.

The Hosttower's top had been ripped off, High Captains Kulth and Sulijack were already dead and the whole barrack complexes where they had been sleeping were in ruins. The sole consolation that he could take was that there didn't appear to be that many demons in the attacking force.

"Move those ballistae up now! Move it, you sons of sea-whores!" he roared, spittle flying into his dark brown beard.

His men hastened to obey, moving the ballistae up towards one of the bridges. The enemy had foolishly chosen not to station their forces upon it, and the High Captain intended to get as many of his men across them as he could before attempting a counter assault.

"We have a target, firing!" one of the men manning the massive weapon shouted.

An arrow barrage joined the two enormous bolts as Baram got a good look at the intended target. He was tempted to whistle. In his dealings with the Arcane Brotherhood, he had seen many a Demon and a Devil, but never had he seen something like this before. Easily ten feet tall, almost invisible against the darkness with its black armor, the monstrosity was a terror to behold.

The bolts sailed in, and then time seemed to slow for the High Captain. The creature shifted a shield larger than an ogre and blocked the first bolt, before lashing out with its other arm to his disbelief, actually parried the second bolt. The arrows rained down on it moments later, but they were bounced off of the armor. The creature gave out a reverberating roar that shook buildings and sent prickles of fear up his spine. It leveled its free arm, and Baram squinted as a harsh green light filled his vision, growing brighter by the moment. There was a pulse, a second roar, and the horrid sound of screams cut short, the stench of roasted Human flesh, and bubbling rock.

The High Captain was aware that the concussion of whatever had just happened had knocked him to the dirt. Blearily, blinking his eyes to try and readjust them to the darkness, he stared out ahead. His jaw opened in abject horror at the scene before him. Along the central bridge had been the better part of three hundred men, plus the ballistae. They were gone. Nothing was left but ash and tiny bits of blackened skeletons. The bridge's flagstones burned white hot and pooled around like the water that they were built above. For dozens of yards all around, men screamed and flailed as anything upon them that had been remotely flammable burned. They writhed in agony, doomed by the very equipment they had been counting upon to save their lives. Others threw themselves into the churning waters in a desperate bid to extinguish the flames that ate away at them. Their deaths would be no less gruesome. At this time of day, the water's temperature would be well below zero. It would paralyze them instantly, and with the weight of their armor and their wounds, they would sink like anvils to the bottom.

The creature roared again, and a bright green light flickered at the end of its arm. Baram noticed its direction, and opened his mouth to scream. It never made it out of his lungs. The light flashed over him, and in that instant, High Captain Jonas Baram was no more.

All throughout Luskan the scene repeated itself. Men and women died as they assaulted the Neo-Covenant forces, while the Master Chief and his allies methodically and mercilessly worked their way down through the Hosttower.

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&

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Well, hopefully not too bad of a chapter, and hopefully I can get the next one out a little faster.

As always, I hope you enjoyed it, and any form of feedback, positive or negative (especially if you have constructive criticisms, I need more of that) are welcomed, and I will try better to actually respond in the next go round (I again apologize for that).

Until next time, stay safe everyone. This is Red Mage 04, wishing you the very best.


	20. Chapter 19: Demonic Onslaught

Hello again everyone. I'm at a loss for words here. I've had this chapter sitting on my computer, beta-read and everything, for three weeks. I just haven't been able to get around to posting it. School's left me utterly exhausted, and I have literally spent the last week suffering from some stress related insomnia and getting less than two hours of shut-eye a night.

I must also extend my sincerest apologies for not responding to everyone like I normally do. My hotmail account has been deleting the review responses for reasons I do not understand, and the PMing system is likewise giving me grief. I must also apologize for just how blasted short this chapter is. The only consolation that I can give people is that I'm overseeing my own final proofreading of chapters twenty and twenty one now, and they should be on the way to my beta reader before the day is out.

As always, a special thanks to animedragongirl for having the patience to put up with my grammar errors, and to you, the readers, who are willing to put up with these ever increasing delays that more and more seem to indicate the universe itself is aligning against me.

Lawyers: you know the drill.

In conclusion, here is the chapter, and here is to hoping I have not enacted my own person Dethroning Moment of Suck, as Tvtropes would say.

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**Chapter Nineteen- Demonic Onslaught**

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The Master Chief leaned back out of the way as a bolt of energy zipped past him. He leaned around the stone corner and leveled his ASG-60. A shockwave ripped through the room as the supersonic uranium flew out of the gun and reduced the mage in question to bloody fragments.

"Command, be advised, certain arcane artifacts still appear to be capable of operation, despite Weave disruption," he shouted into a private commline, before looking back down at his motion sensor.

There was nothing moving on it, but that didn't mean nothing was there. He motioned behind him for the cloaked elites and Neeshka to hold their positions. Double checking his own optical stealth systems, he fished a fiber optic camera around the corner. There didn't appear to be anything there, and after a few seconds he withdrew it and stored it carefully away in one of his pouches. He double checked his second magazine's load. 26 shots left in this one. Enough to keep it in place for now.

"Sierra moving forward. Be prepared to provide support," he whispered to the rest of the team. Acknowledgment lights winked in response. It brought back memories of when he ran operations with the rest of his family.

The Spartan-II refocused on the task at hand, and brought up his weapon again. He moved around the corner, ready to unleash a hail of fire on anyone who dared to stick their heads out. Nothing moved.

Approximately fifteen minutes had passed since the start of the operation, and they were about halfway down through the tower. They had taken seven prisoners, and three archmagi were dead. That left three to go.

He descended down another flight of stairs and emerged into another level. Panicked troops and magi were hiding behind overturned desks and tables, crossbows and what appeared to be wands leveled at the various entrances. They didn't see the faint distortion that he left though. The only warning that they received was when an HP-9 frag grenade landed in among them. They spent a split-second staring at the small, spherical device, before it exploded. Dozens were killed instantly, and then the Master Chief went dynamic. His scatter gun kicked against his shoulder and two men dropped as their chests became forcibly separated from their waists. The next targets of opportunity were three mages hiding behind a thick oak wood desk. It might have protected them from arrows, bolts, or some spells, but to the weaponry of the UNSC, it might as well have been papier-mâché for all the good it would do them.

From the slow motion of Spartan Time, the Master Chief watched with cold eyes as they were spread over the nearest surface areas. He was a blur as he moved, gunning down four Luskan soldiers as they wildly fired their crossbows, some of them crying out in fear. The cyborg shifted over behind a stone wall, and opted to employ some psychological warfare. He decloaked, and pivoted around, little more than a green blur before his ASG vaporized a trooper from the waist up. The next shell was chambered, and he stuck his head out again. Two crossbow bolts came flying in at him. They moved as if through mud, and the Master Chief let the first one bounce off his shields, before grabbing the second one out of the air and crushing it to kindling in his grip.

Then his weapon resounded again. Another man fell.

"Shadow team, fire for effect, now!" he barked. A torrent of plasma fire answered his command, and the few frightened survivors were quickly dispatched.

The Elites moved in, Neeshka right behind them. A quick sweep was done to search for survivors. None were found, and they moved into the next area of the tower.

* * *

Johnson almost smirked as the UAVs sent them visual data from up above the city. The Luskans were already organizing their counter-attack. Most were vainly trying to throw back Barricade, but the Hunters and vehicles were making it suicidal at best. The rest were headed their way. The Sergeant Major watched the two mortars carefully. At Cortana's go ahead, right when the native troops got full force out into the open, they would get an 81 mm surprise.

A few platoons entered the main road towards the harbor, and the word came. Johnson allowed himself to smile, and dropped the explosive down the tube. The electromagnetic coils of the weapon flared to life, and shot the device out. Intersynced with the targeting computers of the UAVs, the devices were accurate down to fractions of a centimeter. Four hundred meters away, Johnson heard a loud boom, followed by a red rain and interspaced chunks that had once been human body parts. Everyone within seventy meters of the impact sight was in pieces or lying in pools of their own organs and internal fluids.

The second one came down, and gave off a deafening roar. Even that couldn't drown out the scores of screams of those who were mortally wounded, or the hundreds more who were forced forward, their fear of their commanding officers and the mages behind them battling against their fear of whatever Abyss spawned weapon had just been unleashed upon them.

The Sergeant Major knew the truth, though. There was no running from this weapon. The mortar could spit a round almost eight kilometers. There was no place in this city that was safe from them. The next set of mortars rained down, and exploded outwards. More and more troops were coming out now, some curious, some fearful and trying to break from the rear. Those more fearful of their commanders pushed forward, and the result was one big mess for the Luskans… and one giant target of opportunity for the Sergeant Major and his allies. The mortars came down like a hellish rain, never stopping for a second. Block by block, street by street, the ranks of the Luskan soldiers were obliterated as the explosives fell upon their heads.

"Flee, undisciplined cowards!" he heard Tarkimee roar. The Elite shook his fist in the air, and Johnson nodded.

"Striker, Barricade here," he heard another Sangheili call out over the comm, "Hostile enemy forces have gathered at bearing six eight seven by three oh nine, They have taken cover behind an open air market place and a number of other buildings, and are out of our line of sight. If possible, would request some cleansing fire."

"We've got thing under enough control here," Tarkimee said. "Sergeant Major, would you have your construct redirect the second mortar?"

"Already on it," Cortana said. The UAV in control of the second one moved over towards where Barricade was, and within moments, an eighty one millimeter round had impacted there.

"Shadow team here, moving down towards ground floor of Hosttower," the voice of Sierra could be heard.

"Roger that Sierra, monitoring your progress," the A.I. replied.

--

The Master Chief held up a hand to signal for the other members of the strike team to wait for him. Activating his camo again, he slunk forward. He could hear voices up head, frantic and filled with fear. Crouching down, the Spartan moved with the stealth of a ghost. He reached a corner, and fed his endoscope around it once again. What lay before him was a large antechamber, with a number of mages and armored soldiers in it. One man, clad in purple, seemed to be arguing with a mirror. Zooming in, the Master Chief found that, to his surprise, there was a face in the mirror.

It was a Drow, a female one at that. Her face was a study in age, which surprised the Spartan. Drizzt had said that his sister had been the better part of three hundred, and yet she'd looked to be in the prime of her life, about the twenty to sixty range by UNSC standards. How ancient must this crone have been?

"You have failed us, Andarius…" she hissed in the common tongue of this world. "Lolth does not look kindly upon failures. I shall not waste what precious little power my people have at the moment to save your incompetent skin."

"But your eminence," the purple robed man pleaded. "The fault is not ours. We are beset by an army of creatures not of this world. Our men are powerless to stop them, and all who have tried have perished at their hands."

"Spare me your pathetic excuses, you miserable Human," she barked, waving a hand. "If you are incapable of dealing with this small attack, then you are clearly nothing but a weak link in the chain, one that might as well be destroyed now before it can cause any more damage."

The Master Chief had heard enough. He reached up and grabbed a frag grenade. He pulled the pin, and hurled it with all of his might. The small object smacked into the mage's back. He gave a cry of pain and then looked down at what had hit him. The Spartan felt his enhanced reflexes kick in as he reentered combat. He saw a black robed figure off to one side dive behind a metal topped tabled and kick it over. The Drow female's eyes widened slightly, and then the grenade detonated. John saw the concussion wave and the shrapnel fly outwards from the grenade, shredding the Archmage where he stood and killing anyone within fifteen meters who wasn't clad in heavy armor or behind something. Even those that survived sported horrific wounds to the face, arms, and their torsos.

The Spartan charged, leveling his ASG-60 and sending a burst of shotgun fire into the room. Men and women disintegrated before the onslaught, splashing blood and body parts everywhere. The Spartan took aim at the mirror, now badly damaged, and fired twice at it. The near hypersonic pellets from the shotgun ripped it apart, destroying whatever connection there had been with the Drow. No sense giving her a front row demonstration of what her foes could do.

The Master Chief cut down two more men, before he noticed a red robed individual, another Archmage, frantically opening an ornate box. Within it was a strange censor, and a dozen balls of light emerged from it.

"Fool!" he heard a female scream, the black robed one. The voice was hauntingly familiar.

The balls of light touched the floor, and with a burst of flames, twelve towering monstrosities were in the room. Each one was the better part of five meters tall, and looked as if it weighed nearly two metric tons. Muscles coiled, tensed, and pulsed under thick white and gray fur, and hellfire red eyes stared down out of a lupine face. Four massive arms, two ending in hands, two in massive, crab-like claws, twitched. They howled in bloodlust, and charged. The Luskan soldiers were the first ones to die, including what appeared to be a high captain. Then they went to work on the mages, picking them up and tearing them asunder. One of them turned and stared at the entrance, pointed and snarled. The Spartan understood. These creatures could see infrared. His camo was useless against them.

The Master Chief acted. They would destroy him and his allies, or at least, attempt to, whenever they were done with the group in there. Might as well take the initiative. He called for Shadow team to move in, leveled his automatic shotgun, and fired three rounds at the nearest one. The pellets tore deep into the creature's chest and sides, but it kept coming, ignoring the bloody rivers that appeared on its fur. It reached out wide with its arms, and tried to smash the Spartan to powder beneath its fury. The Master Chief dove between its legs, twisting around and firing another round into its hamstring. The beast howled in fury, and twisted with alarming speed to once again try and crush him, but John was back up on his feet in an instant.

The other claw arm came sweeping in, with the Demon's normal one below it. John jumped up and twisted sideways, spinning around and flipping through the gap. Another round boomed out of his shotgun and went into one of its armpits; he could hear the pellets pinging off the monstrosity's ribcage. Again, it seemed to shrug off the wound, and John was tempted to raise an eyebrow. This brute had durability that would have the Brutes themselves envious.

The demon spread all four arms out wide in an attempt to envelop the cyborg in a bear hug, but its foe was far too quick for such a clumsy maneuver. The Master Chief leaped upwards, leveling his ASG-60 with the demon's face. A burst of fire raked across its visage, blasting open its skull and showing the Spartan its brain. The shot also tore out its eyes and sent it howling backwards as it pawed at its now blind face. Before he had hit the ground, the Spartan fired off one last shot that tore into the exposed gray matter and dropped the monster.

Its body faded into nothingness as the Spartan tried to reach around and grab another mag for the shotgun.

"Control, Sierra here, requesting four-one-one from natives in regards to new hostiles," he shouted as Orna and his comrades came in, plasma rifles blazing. The creatures roared and turned to face this new threat, ignoring the terrified Luskans for the moment.

"Control here." Cortana's voice echoed in his speakers. "Lord Nasher says they're something called Glabrezu, a high level demon. They're strong, tough, and have a fondness for snapping people in half with their claws."

"Roger," the Chief growled. One of them lunged at him, too quickly for him to reload his ASG. He unslung his battle rifle, and fired a three round burst into the creature's chest.

The Glabrezu grunted and slowed before the barrage, a series of fist sized holes torn in its chest. It leaped again even as more bursts tore into its chest, sending bits of muscle and lung tissue flying through the air. The Master Chief noticed that there was another one heading in from the side, and growled. The Ascetic and his comrades had their hands full dealing with the other nine. He would have to take these ones on this own. The first one swung both of its right arms at him, and he was forced to block the move. Lightning fast, he swatted the claw aside, and grabbed the 'normal' hand, before twisting it backwards in a manner that it was never meant to move. The sound of shattering bones was audible, followed by a lupine howl of agony. Distracted as it was, it could not prevent the Spartan from turning to deal with its comrade. The Spartan twisted, and raised his BR-55 with a single hand.

There was almost no time to react. In a blur of motion, John flicked his thumb across the power dial for the GDS attached to the weapon, and fired it. At this range, the 50mm grenade wouldn't arm its explosive payload, but that wasn't what he was hoping for. The battle rifle bucked, and shot the grenade out at more than three times the speed of sound … right into the Glabrezu's open mouth. An audible crack was heard, and the monster was launched backwards by the impact.

The Master Chief turned back to his original foe, reached down to his back, and drew his combat knife. The mono-edged blade tore two lines of red as he buried the weapon into the beast's gut and slashed across it. The wolf-like demon tried to retaliate, but all it got for its trouble was its other hand sliced off. Howling in fury and agony, its glowing red eyes glared down at this pint sized mortal that had dared to wound it so.

It promptly received a burst of nine and a half uranium slugs to the face. The multi-ton demon crashed to the floor in a bloody heap, before fading away. The Chief turned to face the other one, which was attempting to get back up, coughing up large amounts of blood as it did so. A burst of fire to its head blew the demon's cranium apart.

"Shadow team confirms five enemy kills," Cortana said, and out of the corner of his eye, the master Chief saw two more of the demons succumb to a barrage of plasma fire. He also saw Neeshka out of the corner of his eye.

She was being silent for the most part, still trying to get used to the concept of rapid communications. Two of the Glabrezu had broken off to engage her, for reasons that the Chief could not understand. The Tiefling was skilled, but the Sangheili and himself represented a much larger combat threat. One of the Luskan mages were behind her-- perhaps that was the reason. The wolf-like monsters had seemed a little perturbed at being summoned after all.

The Spartan reached down, snatched up his ASG-60, and loaded his explosive round mag.

* * *

Neeshka had been preparing to try and usher the mage and the others out of the room when it had happened. She felt her blood tingle in her veins, and turned to see two of the Glabrezu behind her. She uttered a soft curse as they sniffed the air and their eyes flashed with hate. They slavered before her, and all four of their arms twitched like they were mad dogs.

_"We smell your stench, Spawn of Mephasm,"_ one of them hissed in the tongue of the Hells. _"Even if we are banished today, slaughtering one such as you will earn us a great reward among our fellows. Take some comfort in the fact that our pressing situation requires your death to be quick."_ With a laugh that sounded like breaking glass, they charged.

Neeshka readied her blades, and sprang out of the way of the first strike. The armor that the offworlders had bequeathed her with was more durable than anything she'd ever had before, but she wasn't certain she trusted it enough to stand up to a strike from one of these behemoths. She'd seen the brutes rip castle walls apart as if they were made of wet clay. The nimble thief ducked another strike, rolling in-between the legs of one of the creatures, before lashing out and drawing a line of blood along its calf. The wounded Glabrezu snarled and twisted about to try and crush her. Neeshka rolled out of the way, and then cursed her position. The other one was closing fast. Still, she thought wryly, at least the mages were more likely to survive to their interrogations if the Glabrezu were too busy trying to tear her heart out.

She vaulted back up to her feet and jumped again to avoid another strike by the demon. As the claw like arm passed under her, Neeshka jammed her arming sword down into the junction that passed for its wrist. The Glabrezu howled and whipped the arm back to try and shake her off. Neeshka used the momentum to her advantage released her grip on her sword as it snapped about, angling herself to where she was facing the monster's back. Her short sword flashed as she grabbed it with both hands, and jammed it down. The magically sharpened blade, driven by muscles toned from years of athletics and combat and complimented by the strange armor that she wore, let her sink it up to the hilt into the brute's back. It let out a loud howl, and tried to reach her, stomping about. Neeshka kept twisting the blade, trying to rip open as much of the Glabrezu's back as she could. By the time it was able to dislodge her, the young Tiefling had inflicted enough damage to allow casual observers a detailed view of the chest cavity of the monster.

"Shadow team confirms five enemy kills," she heard Cortana say into her ear, something that still unnerved her. Bad memories of Black Garius surfaced for a moment, but she shook them off.

The two creatures changed their strategy up all of a sudden, moving to both try to flank and assault her simultaneously. She cursed again, there would be no way of avoiding that many arms. Still perhaps there was a chance that she could get them to—

Whatever she had been thinking was cut off as something rammed into her from the side. She hit the ground hard and skidded along the stone floor, twisting about and trying to get back up to her feet. She looked back in time to see the Glabrezus' many limbs descend upon the Master Chief. Will-o-the-wisps crackled to life as their arms landed upon that strange barrier that covered his armor. The Spartan blurred about, impossibly fast, and fired two shots from his large weapon. There was a loud boom, and a flash of fire and light as something exploded and one of the Glabrezu went down, its right leg blown off at the hip. The Spartan evaded a counter attack from the other demon by ducking underneath the multitude of arms, and then cocked his fist back and retaliated with an upper-cut aimed between the demon's legs.

The Spartan's fist connected with the bronze codpiece that it wore, and a resounding 'gong' echoed through the room. The Tiefling's mouth dropped open as the piece of protective equipment crumpled inward and collapsed under the fury of the blow. The Glabrezu stumbled backwards, its eyes crossing slightly. It collapsed to its knees, its lower arms clutching at its wound. Then it howled in agony as its brain finally finished processing what had happened to it. It was a scream, Neeshka noted with a smirk, which was quite a few octaves higher than she believed the wolf demons were capable of. This was followed a by a moment of whimpering, before the Spartan turned his weapon upon the creature. The Glabrezu seemed to disappear from the chest up, spurting blood all over the room, floor, and the Spartan's force field.

The Master Chief turned to face the other demon. The Glabrezu stared up with hate-filled eyes that promised a thousand deaths and torments, each more horrid than the last.

_"Know that you have not slain us!" _it screamed in the tongue of the Abyss. _"We will remember you and we will ret—_

Whatever it had been going to say was cut off by a two-shot burst that splattered it's head all over the nearest surfaces.

"Enemy count reduced to three combatants. Demonic entities show higher than standard resistance to plasma weaponry," Cortana said.

Sure enough, the Tiefling noted that it was taking several dozen 'plasma' rounds for the Sangheili to make headway. Of course, the fact that there were more than a half a dozen of them firing on the brutes meant that it only took them a few more seconds to reduce their bodies to vapor.

Orna battled one on his own while his comrades handled the remaining ones. The Ascetic clasped one of the new modeled weapons in his left hand, one of his plasma swords in his right. As the Glabrezu roared and swung, Orna leapt, straight up and over the attacks. He pivoted in mid-air, firing off several bursts from his rifle, while lashing out with his plasma sword and taking the clawed end off of one of the Glabrezu's primary arms. The rifle fire made double-fist size holes in the creature's torso and back all the way down, but despite that, the monster was still on its feet. It twisted and lunged with speed that Neeshka knew Orna would not be able to evade.

Instead, the Sangheili champion roared in his own deep voice, dropped his weapons, reached out, and grabbed the arms of the demon. She saw shock appear in the face of the wolf-like beast, which quickly changed to horror as it realized two things. The first was that its one free hand could not harm the strange foe it faced, due to the barrier around its armor. The second was that the Ascetic was just as strong—no, stronger—than it was. Orna roar again, snapped the brute's wrists, and lunged forward. He dug his four fingered hands deep into the demon's furry hide, and then to the amazement of all watching, picked the Glabrezu up above his head and tossed it through the air. It crashed to the ground and landed upon its wounded arms, howling in pain.

Orna wasted no time. He sprinted forward, and grabbed his weapons. The rifle went back into its holster as he snatched his second sword and activated it. As the Glabrezu rose, trying to ignore the pain in its broken limbs, he stabbed it in the chest, punching the sword in all the way up to the hilt. In a single blurred motion Orna Fulsamee ripped the weapon across the demon's chest. Its face a mask of pain, the creature slumped back down, where the second blade descended and decapitated it.

It was the last of them, and the Ascetic gave off a loud roar of triumph. All around them, the room was covered in demonic blood and human body parts. The survivors among the Luskans had been few. A scant four from the looks of things: a single mage and the three soldiers that Neeshka had defended from the demons. The Master Chief walked over towards them, his weapon leveled at them. The black robed one was shaking her head, her face lowered towards the ground.

"Idiots," she muttered. "Trying to use that without the proper incantations and summoning circles."

As she looked up, the Spartan understood why the voice had seemed so familiar to him. It was Alicia.

He paused for a fraction of a second. Clever maneuver. If she had been working for the Luskans, she might have attempted to warn them of the capacity of him and his fellows. She would need to be interrogated, and they would need to find out exactly how much she and the Drow knew about him and his allies.

"Form up, shoulder to shoulder," he informed them. "On your knees, hands behind your backs." His voice was chilled, devoid of emotion. It was something he'd often found to be more terrifying than any rage of fury he could let into it. "Shadow, restrain them and the other prisoner."

The Sangheili were swift to comply with the order, and within moments, the mages and the one guard were handcuffed and shackled. Shuffling forward as best they could, they headed back towards the roof.

"The first person who so much as _twitches_ in a manner I do not like will find one of their legs burned off," Orna said, brandishing both of his rifles. "I suggest then, for your continued safety, that you not try anything immensely stupid."

"Sierra here," the Chief replied over the private comm line, his external speakers remaining silent, "Shadow team has completed all objectives. Repeat, objectives complete. Requesting status on other teams."

"Barricade reports success," Cortana said, and John could hear the smirk in her voice. "By my calculations, over three quarters of the Luskan military are probably trying to figure out how to explain their sudden appearance to whatever God they worship."

"And Striker?"

* * *

Jonhson whistled to himself as he watched via UAV link up as another mortar smashed into a Luskan combat formation. It was among the last. They had broken quite some time ago, and only the suicidal still tried to retake the harbor. However, if they wanted to die so badly, the Sergeant Major wasn't about to stop them.

"Tarkimee, status report." Cortana's voice echoed over the line.

Johnson turned to where the Sangheili Commander was picking off Luskan troops with a longarm plasma rifle, hitting pockets too small to warrant a mortar bombardment.

"The Commander's a little occupied right now, Cortana," Johnson said.

"Then what is the status?" she asked again.

The Sergeant Major smirked and cleared his throat. "These Luskans are a bugger folk, their mothers are all rugger folk, their army is a bloody joke, they couldn't beat an artichoke!"

"What in the name of Baator?" he heard Neeshka say.

"Bit of a UNSC in-joke, Neeshka," Cortana said. "He means that the Luskans are dying left, right, and center."

"Indeed," Tarkimee finally spoke up. "Aside from the initial group," he paused for a moment as he fired his rifle again, "there were none who made it into Harbor to even begin a counter attack. The day is ours, Commander Keyes."

"Don't celebrate just yet," the Master Chief said. "There's still Mithril Hall. The mages were attempting to contact the Drow for reinforcements when we assaulted them. I'd recommend an immediate implementation of our assault plans in order to keep them off-balance."

"I agree," Commander Keyes spoke up at last. "I'll have Cortana leave the Longsword flying overhead to keep the Harbor secure. Aside from that, though, we'll need to make a beeline for the caves. Bruenor and his compatriots will join you there. He wants to have a hand in retaking his home."

"Can't fault him there," Johnson said. "If a bunch of these punks kicked me out of my home, I'd want to be first in line to teach them a lesson."

"Then gear up and prepare to move out," Keyes said. "If we hurry, we can get all of our forces into position to stage an assault within a few hours."

* * *

&

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Well, there is chapter nineteen. I again apologize for the massive delays that I've been having lately, and my failure as s writer to respond to everyone reading this story. I hope you can find it in yourselves to forgive me, and I promise that I will try my best to do better, both story wise and response wise.

Thank you all once again, for taking the time to read the story. Until next time, stay safe, and may fate smile upon you.


	21. Chapter 20: Bringing Light to Darkness

Hello again, everyone. Life… has been a pain, once more. All the problems I have been having before have been magnified of late. The good news is that it's paying off. My grades are improving and my GPA rising. The bad news, as you can see, is that it has made time necessary to improve and tweak my writings hard to come by. Coupled with the fact that I struggled with this chapter and rewrote it more than once, and well, I'm still not satisfied with the end product.

Again, I apologize. I hope that I was able to respond to everyone's review. If I missed one of you, let me know, please, and I'll endeavor to correct that problem.

I thank you all for your patience, and hope that this is good enough to make up for the months that its been since I managed an update.

Also, musical influences for this chapter included (in addition to one mentioned in chapter), from the new Star Trek movie "Nero Fiddles, Nerada Burns" and from the brillant musical mind of Hans Zimmer, "Psychological Recovery-Six Months" from the new Sherlock Holmes movie.

That said, let's get this over with.

* * *

&

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**  
Chapter Twenty- Bringing Light to Darkness**

The Pelican dropship streaked away from the _Forward Unto Dawn_, followed closely by its sister ship. This was the final load. All of the munitions, power packs, troops, and medical supplies had been loaded and dropped off in a series of rapid fire trips to and from the staging area of the assault. From where he stood, the Master Chief looked out throughout the loading bay. Bruenor, Drizzt, Neeshka, Wulfgar, and even Bruenor's adopted daughter, Cattie-Brie, sat. Sergeant Johnson, Orna, and a number of other soldiers from Neverwinter, Clan Battle Hammer, and even a few plainsmen were there as well.

Johnson kept tapping his foot up and down as the ship streaked through the air. The Spartan could see that the sergeant was tense. They were heading into an unknown, against a race they had only once observed in battle. He had a right to be. However, John suspected that that wasn't the only thing that was making the shocktrooper act as such. There was something else, something that went a little deeper. Perhaps the Drow's actions at that village? It was possible that it had drudged up bad memories.

He entertained the thought of remote accessing the Sergeant Major's Combat Service Vitae, but he decided against it. There would be things enough to worry about on the mission ahead. It didn't need the distraction.

"Commander, feeling a little on edge here, you mind if I put on some music?" Johnson suddenly asked.

"We've got ten minutes until we arrive. Go ahead. Just, try not to freak out our allies. I've a feeling that our musical tastes are somewhat different from theirs." Keyes responded.

"Don't worry, got something relatively tame in mind." He looked up at the Master Chief.

John was tempted to roll his eyes, but his lips twitched upward in a faint, hidden smile as the Helljumper uploaded a file from his UNSC issue neural lace and pumped it through his external speakers.

Bruenor and the others looked over towards the ODST as the music came on. It started with a low thrumming, some instrument he'd never heard before, follow by a chanting that reminded him of some human monks he'd once met. The strange instrument picked up again, giving a high pitched wail that caused him to raise his eyebrow. A set of strange, almost tribal sounding drums joined in with the instrument, creating a strange, harmonic dissonance as the primary instrument began to repeat a series of short notes, and followed into a loud, highly fluctuating chorus of sorts. There and now, the strange, chanting like voices would return.

There was something strange about the melody, something that caused the Dwarf's adrenaline to start flowing. Was this something that the humans of this culture used to prepare themselves for battle? Orcs and Goblinoids were well known for having drummers along that would pump their troops up and alleviate the fear before a battle, so that their troops would fight harder.

"What is this?" He asked the Sergeant Major.

"Song's called Mjolnir," he said with a chuckle.

"Something that he never let's me forget," the Master Chief growled.

"Eh?" Bruenor seemed somewhat confused.

"Mjolnir is the name of the warhammer of Thor, one of the gods of Norse mythology," the Spartan said. "It's also the name of my armor system," he thumped his forefinger against the chestplate of the power armor.

"Ah," Bruenor said, before trailing off into a deep fit of laughter. "It's strange, but I like it!" He got control of himself for a moment, and wiped his brow. "I've been meaning to ask you, what's in those crates we've been bringing with us?"

"These?" John asked, pointing to the ones in the overhead storage compartments. When he got an affirmative nod from the Dwarf, he reached up into one of them and pulled out a small, cylindrical object. "Multi-charge C.L.N.G., stands for Chemical Luminescence and Noise Grenade. We call them flash-bangs. They're typically used to subdue unarmored opponents, or to sow chaos before a rapid entry into a room where a large number of hostiles are known to be."

"You planning on taking many Drow prisoners?" Neeshka spoke up, cocking her head at him.

The Spartan shook his head. "The grenade has six charges, each one gives off five million candela and about two hundred and twenty decibels of raw noise. It's about like having a small sun dropped in front of you and sticking your unprotected ear next to the engine of this drop ship," he snapped his fingers, "instant perforation of the eardrum. In the case of the Drow it should cause permanent blindness, as well."

The Tiefling shuddered for a moment. A device like that would render a Dark Elf completely helpless before the assault of these soldiers. There was one question, though, that bothered her.

"How do you stop it from affecting you?" she asked.

"Simple," Johnson said. "We've brought polarizing glasses for everyone to wear, along with a computerized set of earphones. They'll sense the light and noise increase, and adapt to block it out. They'll also tag you so our Friend-or-Foe indicators will decipher you easier on our motion sensors."

She said nothing, simply nodded.

It took them only minutes to go the distance and arrive at their destination. The Neo-Covenant were in position, along with most of the Dwarves of Clan Battle Hammer. There was a murderous gleam to their eyes, tempered by righteous fury. They were ready to take back their home.

A series of hologram emitters were set up, each one displaying the many levels and floor plans of the Hall. Commander Keyes looked around to King Bruenor, and waited for his permission. The red bearded dwarf nodded, his hands upon Ragnarok, ready to cleave Dark Elven skulls open.

"Okay, people, our objective is simple," she gestured to the primary holo-emitter, "retake the entirety of Mithril Hall from the hands of the Dark Elves. Enemy force projections indicate there may be as many as two thousand soldiers stationed here, with an unknown number of Kobold, Goblin, and Orc slaves. Estimates put them at a maximum of twenty thousand." She pulled out a remote and pressed a button on it. "Master Chief, you and Sergeant Major Johnson are going to be the personal escorts of King Bruenor and his group." She nodded towards the two armored soldiers. "His safety is paramount. Protect him with your lives if you have to."

"Understood ma'am," the Master Chief and Johnson both said, saluting their superior.

"Orna, you and Commander Tarkimee will be splitting your forces up to take the lower levels," these were highlighted by another push of her remote. "The corridors will be narrow, and so Lotar and Denos may be of limited use to you. If you find an area where they cannot enter. Send them to the nearest area that needs clearing out where they will fit. Also, try to avoid collateral damage here as much as possible. Rely on your flashbangs, and then mow down the opposition with precision shots. Use grenades and FRCs only if you have a large group of enemies that are not near anything vital or vulnerable, we're going to need this place taken intact. Targeting priorities are Drow first, everything else second."

"Understood," the chanting response echoed.

"Prepare to move out," Keyes said with a cold snarl.

It seemed that vengeance was on everyone's mind tonight.

* * *

The Master Chief crawled up over the hill in front of him. He held an Oracle in his hands as he slithered upwards like a snake. Over the rise, eh could see the massive, imposing doors of the ancestral home of Clan Battle Hammer. His cloaking device was off. It would be counterproductive towards his goals here. The Drow naturally saw heat, and while the Mjolnir armor suit masked most of his emissions, the optical cloaking device heated up the generator beyond the standard level. He'd make himself a glowing bullseye for no gain.

He leveled the sniper rifle, zooming in until he could make out the individual runes on each of the doors. There were small slits in each side, and he could see the heat effects of two Drow warriors at each of them, standing watch. The smart link scoped factored in bullet drop, wind shear, distance, and all of that. However, The Master Chief reran the figures through his head, trying to make certain that the machine matched up with his own.

Three seconds later, he was ready. He fired the rifle twice in rapid succession, switched to the other side, and emptied the magazine.

The Drow at the gates didn't even have time to figure out what was going on. They never saw Death come, never heard him. Their headless corpses flew backwards as the SABOT round pinged and ricocheted around inside of the main entrance hall, sending other Dark Elves scurrying for cover.

Lotar and Denos moved up next to the Spartan, and leveled their massive assault cannons. The fuel rods glowed a hellish green as they activated, and a plasma charge streaked across the distance between the entrance. A solitary Drow soldier that had managed to get up where the sentries were had the blinding agony of a small sun manifested to his vision, before the two charges struck the doors and sent them flying. They landed as half slagged messes.

"Charge!" Keyes ordered.

The Spartan let the sniper rifle go, reaching up and drawing his ASG before sprinting down the hill. Two Specters came roaring up behind him. Between the three of them, they crossed the two kilometer distance in less than a minute. The two light assault craft breeched the gap first, and the Sangheili manning the plasma cannons on the back threw down a combination of suppression fire and precision targeting. The Drow, who had been forming up to try and deal with a conventional assault, were completely unprepared for what came bursting through.

Orbs of darkness settled over the attacking craft, but the Elites fired on regardless. Their motion sensors told them where their prey was.

Charging in behind them, the Master Chief saw a bolt take a Drow warrior and punch through his chainmail. The soldier was ripped in half, and fell to the ground. No scream escaped his lips. Screaming required lungs. His had been blown to ash.

The Spartan lobbed a flash-bang. The small object bounced along the floor before rolling to a stop in front of the larger concentrations of soldiers.

Night became noon, and then brighter, far brighter than any natural source of light that had ever graced the depths of Mithril Hall, while the incredibly powerful shockwave, muted due to his armor and hearing receptors, shook the whole place. Drow soldiers fell screaming in agony, clawing at their eyes and thrashing about while blood poured from their ears. They were utterly helpless, fodder for the Sangheili and their cybernetic ally. For the remaining few moments of their lives, the Drow soldiers that were involved with the initial defense of the gate learned of the fear they had so long instilled in others.

"Entrance hall secure, waiting on back up," the Master Chief reported, staring around with his infrared vision turned on. There were a few survivors of the assault, missing arms and legs, or with half their body reduced to shredded or half vaporized messes. It was obvious that they would not survive the next few minutes. He left them where they lay. No need to waste ammunition on them.

The Spartan walked over towards one of them, missing both of his legs and lower portion of one of his arms where an ASG shell had removed them. The Spartan looked down upon the blind and deafened alien, studying the physiology of his enemy. They were built much like Drizzt, though they seemed to prefer heavier armor. Nimble looking fingers, high, very pronounced cheekbones, and long white hair. The crippled Dark Elf seemed to sense that he was near, and turned to face him. The pupils didn't dilate or focus. The required nerves and muscles had been burned out by the flash of light from the grenade. A weak hand moved towards a fallen arming sword, but the Master Chief stopped it. The Dark Elf howled as his wrist was shattered under the force of the half ton soldier placing his weight upon it. The Spartan stooped down and studied the weapon. It was predominately straight, but slightly curved at the end, an unusual design, he noted, while the back half was serrated.

Very odd. Such implementation would make the weapon virtually useless for slicing with that end, at least, against anyone wearing armor, but perhaps that was not its job. Drizzt mentioned that his people were fond of torture and other unpleasantries that made a deep, almost feral part of the Master Chief's mind pulse with rage. This was meant to double as a torture instrument, something to slice a person up like a hunk of meat.

He took a moment to study the rings of the armor. Analysis indicated a similarity to the armor of Lord Nasher's elite guard, Adamantine, if he remembered right. But there were key differences. Chemical compounds and alloys that would rapidly oxidize if exposed to sunlight. A critical weakness to anything on the surface, but in the lightless abyss of the so-called Underdark, not such a problem. The sword was made of a similar material, and was nearly as sharp as one of his combat knives. He had to admit that he was impressed with the workmanship.

"Bruenor's moving up with the others. Get ready to move further in," Cortana said to him.

"Roger, retrieving flash bang," the Spartan said, leaving the dying Elf where he lay, and heading over to where his charge had bounced.

A few moments later, the Dwarven King charged in through the front door, and smiled wickedly as he stared around at the carnage.

"Don't suppose you saved any for us?" he asked as he walked up to the Master Chief.

"Plenty more deeper inside where our Specters can't go, your majesty," he said.

"It'll be fun to fight alongside you again," Bruenor said with a nod. "Almost as much fun as showing these dogs why you don't mess with the Battle Hammers!" His grin faded slightly as he looked over to Drizzt, who had both of his scimitars out. "Present company excepted of course."

"You've been around me long enough to know that I am not my people, old friend," Drizzt gave a somber grin in return, his violet eyes hidden behind the polarizing visor, "let us finish this."

"Tell us which way to go," Johnson said.

"Right door leads to the throne room," Bruenor said. "Expect a mess of Goblinoids to come through, though."

"Not an issue," Keyes said over the comlink. "Chief, you and the others get those doors open, and let the plasma cannons and the Hunters go to work."

"Understood, ma'am," the Spartan nodded his head, and dashed over. Between him and the Elites, it wasn't hard to muscle open the large double doors that led into the depths of Mithril Hall.

As sure as Bruenor warned, the Dark Elves unleashed their slaves. However, as the goblins, kobolds, and even a few minotaurs poured down the hallways, they caught sight of one of two things. Some saw a strange craft that floated upon the air like the chariot of a Dark Elf matron. Others saw a hulking demon in black armor. In either case, they met a swift death as the medium plasma cannon unleashed dozens of bolts of superheated energy into their midst, or they were blasted to ash by the fury of the Lek'golo's assault cannons. Within moments, the hallways were clear.

"Press the attack!" Bruenor shouted.

The command group consisted of the Dwarf King, a number of his body guards, Drizzt, Wulfgar, Neeshka, and Cattie-Brie, with the Master Chief and Johnson taking up point escort. The Spartan felt a pang of sympathy for anything that happened across them. The Dwarves were out for blood, and it would be a while before they were sated. This was holy ground to them, and the Drow had desecrated it with their very presence, and had slaughtered the Dwarven defenders here to boot. From what he'd been able to research, nothing made the Dwarves more dangerous than when those conditions applied.

He moved forward with Johnson at his side. Their boots squished beneath their feet as they trod through the remains of the still cooling piles of meat that had once been living beings.

The corridor opened into a narrow pathway lined with pillars and display stands. John resumed this must have once been a display area for great works of Dwarven craft. Whatever had been here, it had long sense been looted. His heat vision picked up movement at the far end of the chamber. A Dark Elf leveled a crossbow while Orcs and other goblinoid slaves rushed out to assault the team. The Spartan blurred, leveling the shotgun he carried and firing two shots down range. The Dark Elf archer flew apart under the fury of the assault, while Johnson reached down to the grenades across his chest.

"Banging clear!" he shouted, hurling one of the objects down range.

A miniature sun formed and a shockwave pulsed through the Spartan's bones. In truth, he'd been worried about the possibility of cave ins through using the flash-bangs, but Bruenor had assured him that Dwarven construction was designed to withstand fully fledged earthquakes, and that the Hall had weathered such events before. Still, he kept an eye out for falling debris as the group pressed forward towards the blinded defenders.

Some of the Minotaurs were still on their feet, albeit howling in pain, with blood trails visible in their ears. Nonetheless, they charged. The Master Chief and Johnson opened fired simultaneously ripping the creatures open. They heard a cry of 'Tempos!' behind them, followed by a large warhammer spinning by. Wulfgar's strike caved the head of one of the brute's in, while blasting it off its feet. Bruenor's bodyguard charged forward to deal with the rest of the assault, while his daughter stayed back, leveling a large bow and firing off silver arrows at the stragglers to the rear.

True to his predictions, the Master Chief watched the Dwarves rush towards the deafened Minotaurs, and absolutely butcher the creatures. Worse still, for the black hearted defenders, were that they faced no ordinary Dwarves. These were Battle Ragers. Clad in spiked armor and armed with wickedly sharp axes, they plunged into the melee and fought in a strange combination of weapon play and hand to hand combat. Their spiked gauntlets ripped through the crude leather armor of the walking cows and cut deep into their legs. The Minotaurs responded by trying to crush the Dwarves beneath the fury of their maces and morning stars.

The Master Chief leveled his shotgun at a target, and fired. The Minotaur's head and shoulders were taken off by the blast. He caught one of the brutes trying to throw an axe at him, and twisted to the side as it came hurtling through the air. Cobra quick, his arm snaked out, grabbed the weapon, and hurled it back. The creature went down to its knees, its eyes crossing in an attempt to spend its dying moments staring at its own weapon, now buried in its muzzle.

Johnson's ASG-60 punched a basketball sized hole in the chest of another, before flying into a trio of Orcs that had been trying to get up at the far end of the corridor and ripping them open. The final Minotaur dropped as Drizzt blurred forward, evaded its comparably clumsy attacks, and leapt up to slice its throat open. The Master Chief could help but smile. The technique was flashier than he'd prefer, but it did get the job done.

He and Johnson resumed point, not bothering to step over the bodies of those who were dead, and those not quite dead. They'd leave them to be sorted out by the soldiers behind them. The motion sensor alerted them to more hostiles up ahead, and sure enough, another wave of Goblinoids came crashing in.

Two flashbangs later, and they were on their knees and backs, squealing in their various tongues.

The Master Chief wondered what it was that drove these creatures onward in the face of such opposition. He and the sergeant, to say nothing of the Elites, would butcher any one of them. Their fear of the Dark Elves must have been great indeed. Still, if they would rather die than face the horrors of their masters, the Spartan would be happy to oblige.

As the corridor opened up into a multi leveled facility, the Spartan could hear com chatter indicating that Fulsamee and his comrades had managed a breakthrough in the other regions. The Spartan nodded, and then took stock assessment of the situation. His motion scanner was alive with movement on all the stories of this huge chasm. Metal forges, probably processing the mithril ore of this place, lit it up and glowed brightly in his infrared scanners. Goblins, Orcs, Dark Elf overseers, and the like, were everywhere.

He pulled out his battle rifle, and started shooting. The Dark Elves went first, their heads burst open like ripe melons before the fury of the high caliber rounds. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and saw a Dark Elf female, two scimitar like blades held in her hands. She began to whip them back and forth in a somewhat stunning display. Drizzt began to move forward, but Johnson beat him to the punch.

The Sergeant Major calmly drew his sidearm, and fired. The female was hit directly in the center of her chest by the heavy slug. It exploded a moment later, leaving her with a enormous cavity where most of her innards used to be. He returned the pistol to its holster as she slumped to the ground, before drawing an MA5B assault rifle and letting go a flurry of tightly placed shots that wreaked havoc and chaos on those down below.

"Too many of the damn little fodder ones," he barked. "We're going to need more bullets to get the job done, or we stand a real chance of the bastards running us out of ammunition!"

The Master Chief agreed with the statement. The area below them crawled, as if the ground itself was living. There must have been thousands of fodder slaves, waiting to rush forward and die for their masters.

There had to be another way. Something else, something they wouldn't expect, he thought, as he primed a grenade and hurled it downwards. He barely heard the concussion of the fragmentary device, so muffled was it by the bodies that erupted amongst. Then it hit him. The collateral damage might be an issue, but if things went according to plan, then maybe he wouldn't have to shoot for long.

"Johnson, hold the line with them, I'll be back ASAP," he ordered his comrade. "Commander, requesting that you move one of the Pelicans in close."

"Chief, what are you—" Johnson began.

"I need the thirty on the back," the Spartan finished.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," The ODST shook his head. "Just err on overkill why don't you!"

The Master Chief was already dashing back around the point, heading for the entrance.

"Question," Neeshka said, as she and Cattie-Brie kept firing their bows into the writhing mass below, a mass that was steadily stomping up towards them, rushing over catwalks and metal walkways, "what's a thirty?"

"You remember that gun that Orna used back when we first ran into each other?" Johnson said, "the big one that he took from the dropship? That's a thirty."

The Tiefling said nothing, but Bruenor gave him a strange look, while Drizzt seemed uncomfortable. The Drow's facial expressions became unreadable a moment later, when he slipped back into the depths of his cloak and nocked his bow again. Three archers, though, could not make a dent in the numbers that lay before them. Three hundred couldn't have pushed them back. The horde drew ever nearer. They were less than three levels down, now. It would take them only another minute or so to get up, even with them having to trample over the bodies of their comrades. Johnson dropped a frag grenade, but knew that it would be the last one he could hurl at the front. They would be too close after that, he might hurt one of the natives.

Bruenor growled, and readied his axe. He didn't like these odds, but if they had to fall back, then so be it. There were reinforcements further out.

"Excuse me, your majesty, how much weight can your catwalks hold?" The voice belonged to the Spartan, and it echoed in his ear. He wondered why the Spartan asked such a question.

"There's a horde of a couple thousand goblinoids trampling up it right now, and it ain't shaking loose. Dwarven construction's built to last, me good man," he let a note of pride slip into his voice.

"Just what I wanted to know," the Master Chief said.

Bruenor heard a loud thumping behind him, and turned to see the Spartan reemerge. True to his word, the massive, multi-tube weapon was held in his hands, while a large backpack hung by metal reinforced straps. There was a trail of the weapons ammunition that ran between it and a large cylinder that Bruenor suspected was a secondary storage unit. His eyes bulged slightly as he stared at it though. Last time, he hadn't gotten a good look at the 'bullets' that this monster used. They were as big around as his fist, nearly as long as his forearm.

The Spartan looked over the edge of the catwalk that they were upon, and leapt off. He landed heavily, about a hundred feet away from the pressing horde. A number had already may their way up the stairs to the level above, and would be bearing down on Bruenor and the others. Nothing he could do about them. Here, however, there wouldn't be an issue of friendly fire.

He had about six hundred rounds between both ammo storage units. He needed to make them count. He leveled the weapon, and gently tapped the firing stud. A single thirty millimeter round shot out of the cannon and streaked through the lines of the enemy. A second followed, and then a third, as the catwalk turned into a meat grinder.

"Fire, pause, fire, pause," the Spartan whispered to himself.

The area in front of him cleared for the moment, and he could hear the sound of screaming from the area above him. None of the screams sounded like his allies, and if Bruenor's jubilant voice was anything to go by, they were doing just fine. He needed to press forward, keep the enemy off balance. It would be the last thing they were expecting. He raised the autocannon up higher, even with his shoulder, and kept the belt out of the muck and gore as he stomped across the catwalk. His motion sensor was still one red blur, and beneath him was a mass of slaves and fodder, waiting for their turn to fight and die.

How did the Drow gather so many into a single location? Mithril Hall had fallen to them less than a month ago. If this chamber was any indication, there could be tens of thousands of troops stationed here. How did the Drow keep them all supplied? How far were they from the nearest Dark Elf logistics base? Questions for survivors, he thought to himself.

"Moving down to third level, ammo supplies at ninety five percent," he echoed into the comm system.

"Roger that, Sierra, marking your position," Cortana said. "Hope you know what you're doing. Things could get ugly in there really fast."

"Clear for the moment," the Spartan said.

John looked down below him. Another wave was stomping up, but it would take them some time to reach his position. He scanned his way across the forge area beneath him, and spotted a clustering of Drow troopers. He angled the thirty as he needed, and lined up. The crosshairs on his HUD flashed red, and he depressed the firing stud. Two rounds leapt out of the barrels, and the group seemed to erupt into a mass of body parts. He caught sight of a single Dark Elf bolting around a corner, and forced himself to check his fire. The autocannon round would punch through the rock like it wasn't even there. One target, however, was a waste of his limited ammo supplies. He was curious about who the individual might have been though. He wasn't aware of any Drow ranks that included the use of wide brimmed hats with what looked like some kind of feather sticking out of them.

* * *

Fifty feet above his head, Bruenor locked axes with a rather heavily built Orc warrior. The creature's face was twisted, marred by scars and pitted by what looked to be fang marks. For once in his life, Bruenor actually felt a bit of sympathy for the wretch on the other end of his weapons. He could remember Drizzt's tales quite well, and knew the fate that usually befell slaves. There's was not an envious lot in life. He was doing these things a favor by killing them.

The creature brought its axe down as if it were trying to cleave the helm from his head. Bruenor let the weapon fall. It smashed into the helmet, but bounced off the well crafted mithril without leaving so much as a dent. His rock hard skull took care of the rest of things, and he grinned as the impact threw the Orc off balance. Ragnarok flashed once, burying itself up into the groin of the creature, before the Dwarf King reached back and took another chunk out of his adversary's side. A pair of Kobolds rushed over the fallen body of their comrade, but there was little they could do against the Dwarven juggernaut that stood before him. The blood in the King's veins began to boil, and his axe began to become on unstopping engine of destruction.

At his sides, two Battle Ragers lunged forward, deflecting blows with their axes before grabbing their adversaries in a bear hug. They went into a series of convulsions, and their spiked and bladed armor reduced their foes to shredded messes. Gobliniod ichor dripping off their armor and their half covered faces, they gave great shouts before plunging further into the group.

Bruenor took stock, there were less than a score of troops left before them. There was a blur of darkness over his head: Drizzt. The Dark Elf was like a specter of the reaper itself. He plunged both of his scimitars home into a single foe as he leapt through the air, riding the body to the ground. In a single blurred motion, both Icingdeath and Twinkle were back out, and hacking away. The enemies around him seemed to fall apart, and the remaining troops seemed to waver as they finally realized that there was a Drow among this group. Instinctive submission welled up for a moment, and Drizzt didn't hesitate. Before they understood what was going on, the slaves were groping at slit throats, opened bellies, and a number of other wounds.

They slumped to the ground, and Drizzt flourished his weapons, before starting to head down the staircase in front of them.

"Ascetic, Tarkimee, status report?" Keyes asked.

"Sangheili troops have forgone plasma weaponry in favor of swords. Too many of the vermin for us to squash with ranged weaponry without running out of ammo. Casualties nonexistent thus far," Orna responded.

* * *

On the other side of that line, Orna Fulsamee led his brothers once again. The Sangheili's twin plasma blades dove downwards and slashed to and fro, biting into Orc and Goblin flesh, while the smaller Kobolds were simply stampeded over like they were not even there. Behind them, the Grunts busied themselves with finishing off the stragglers that had managed to survive.

They exited the corridor that they were in, and like Bruenor and his compatriots found themselves in a large forge. The Ascetic marveled at the wondrous construction that surrounded him. To create such a great work with only the tools afforded them, it was a masterpiece, an architectural work of art that almost distracted him. A barrage of arrows and small bolts descended from the upper levels. Orna spread his mandibles behind his helmet. Time to show the warmongers was battle was about, starting with a little psychological warfare.

The Sangheili line formed up into a wedge shape, each one of the enormous aliens locking themselves into a set position. They raised their blades as more arrows bounced harmlessly off their shields. Goblinoids charged towards them in a barely organized line.

The Ascetic and his compatriots kept pace, moving forward methodically, their faces hidden behind the emotionless fronts of their helmets. Still the slaves charged. They slammed against the front row of the Elite line, and almost instantly disintegrated. The Neo-Covenant forces erupted into action, becoming multi-colored blurs as they slashed, chopped, and stabbed with their energy blades. Armor melted, weapons burst into flame and became bubbling pools of slag before them, and before long, the Goblinoids were torn between fear of their masters, and fear of the mysterious foes in front of them.

* * *

Jarlaxle panted softly, before reaching up underneath his feathered cap. The Dark Elf pulled out a whistle and blew a series of harsh notes on it. He prayed that the magic was still effective despite the troubles with the Weave. With luck, it would alert his fellows deeper back in the mines, and let them know to get the hell out of this place. The mercenary leader shuddered and for one of the few times in his life, felt genuine terror.

He had seen something up in the higher alcoves of the mines, nearly invisible to his heat based vision. A hulking monster, carrying a massive device that couldn't be anything other than a weapon. The others that had been with him, they were all dead, he knew it. It was only by the skin of his teeth that he had managed to get out of this mess alive.

His memory flashed back to the battle that Matron Baenre had had him and his fellows scope out. The dead Orcs, the dead Luskans, the shattered, shredded, and mutilated bodies, he knew what had done it now. Why had the Matrons kept this hidden from him and the others? They had to know that something like this was on Faerun. A creature of that nature could not remain hidden for long, someone with the proper arcane attunement would have noticed, and it wasn't as if the Luskans wouldn't be curious as to what wiped their forces out.

Anger began to simmer in his blood as he contemplated what that meant. Either the Luskans had foolishly chosen to keep that information to themselves—unlikely, given that even the Arcmagi were afraid of Matron Baenre—or that the Matrons knew, but decided that he, his mercenaries, and the other soldiers here simply were not important enough to be notified.

The anger turned into a full blown rage that made his only visible eye glow. He struggled to resist the urge to lash out, to deny the anger and bloodlust that seemed his birthright. First, he had to get as many of the men and women under his command out of here as possible, before they were slaughtered like Roth before a bunch of Hook Horrors.

He blew on the whistle again as he descended into the depths of the mines. Shortly, he found his playing was paying off, a group of six Drow shifted out of a tunnel to his left. He recognized them as his own, and they saw his relieved grin and returned it.

_What's going on?_ asked one of the males in silent code, one of his sergeants, by the name of Dilafay.

_Trouble up above. Bruenor and his friends,_ Jarlaxle responded with a few flicks of his right hand. _They have with them some manner of creature I've never seen before. I believe it's the one that wreaked such havoc among the surface forces we were sent to investigate._

_Is this why you order the retreat?_ a female inquired.

_Indeed._

"It is wise that he does," someone dared to whisper. Another group had emerged from the darkness, their faces colored bright by the heat of their blood. They were out of breath. Jarlaxle recognized Dinin Do'Urden. "There are demons loose in the lower chambers, creatures I have never before born witness to. Hundreds of them."

Jarlaxle's eyes narrowed dangerously. The Heavens and the Hells may have been in disarray, but there was no excuse for this. To not see an event of this nature coming, with as much arcane training as the vaunted Matrons possessed was sloppiness and ineptitude that the mercenary leader would have never believed possible in his lifetime. It was the kind of sloppiness that got someone killed, or their house destroyed.

He shook his head and motioned for the others to follow. That crone might give him hell for what he was doing, but he was not going to throw away the lives of the men and women who were loyal to him in some showing of fanatical loyalty to the Spider Queen. This day was lost, and so, he suspected was this cause.

"Come," he whispered, "we move. Bruenor will be content with the halls, he will not follow… and I doubt that any who stand their ground will survive to see us flee."

* * *

Unknown to the mercenary leader was that someone watching him. Helm nodded sagely as he stood before the Celestial Staircase. His shook those thoughts from his head, though, as he sensed something nearing. He looked out across the area before him and saw someone approaching, hidden within the depths of a midnight blue cowl. He knew who it was though, and his eyes narrowed behind his cowled armet.

"Mystra…" he said, as she drew near. "Again you return, and you still do not have your sacred tablets. You know the rules laid down by Ao. Turn back now, lest I be forced to scar your face once again."

"Ever the lapdog," the woman before him hissed. "I have had enough of this. The people languish without us. They cry out for our aid, and we cannot—"

"Spare me the theatrics, I've heard them before." Helm shook his head, while drawing a large bastard sword. "Maybe this will teach you and the others to spend less time plotting amongst yourselves, and more time worrying about the mortals we are pledged to guide and protect." He paused for a moment. "And I see through your tales of woe, Mystra. Bane pleaded as well, before I sent him back, sent him to his death. Lathander, Tiamat, all of them. I see the same thing in their eyes," his unseen lip turned upwards in disgust. "I see fear. You fear what you have become. You know what it is to be weak, to be vulnerable. You must feel like a statue made of glass, _milady_, worried that the slightest misstep will cause you to shatter."

"Simply because you have known the bitterness of mortality before you became a God does not give you the right to pass judgment on us like this," she snarled.

"The bitterness of mortality?" Helm chuckled. "Poor deluded woman, you've spent too much time lording over a bunch of magi and ordering around people with sharp sticks. You have not the slightest inkling of what those 'bitter mortals' are capable of. I do. But enough of this. Turn back now."

"Never! Never again! I will not be bound to this wretched form any longer!" the Avatar screeched. She summoned a bolt of raw power, a spell strong enough to leave a Baalor stretched out dead before her, and hurled it at the God before her.

Helm made no move. The spell crashed into his chestplate, and harmlessly dissipated. The glowing eyes narrowed and faster than a man could have blinked, he slashed his sword through the air. There was a crash of thunder, and a blast of energy, of raw cosmic power, streaked off the pointed end of the blade and hit the former Goddess of Magic square in the chest. She screamed in agony, before another sharp pain erupted through her spine. Looking down, she saw the tip of Helm's sword protruding from between her breasts. He coughed, and more blood spattered onto the sacred ground before them. Slowly, she looked over her shoulder, back up into the hidden face of the other God who now stood behind her. Her mouth opened in a gasp of surprise, as if she were unable to believe that Helm had actually gone through with his threat.

"I warned you, milady, I warned you. You authored your end with your own hand… not mine. " Helm said. His voice was calm now, devoid of all emotion. Then he twisted the blade and ripped it out of her, cleaning its edge upon her cloak. "Your body will lie here until the Troubles are ended, and perhaps you may yet save some lives in that respect. A dead body, after all, makes a much more effective deterrent to others that would break the High Father's command than my mere words."

She took a last, gasping breath, and then went silent. Helm shook his head. Such a waste. Still, he had warned her. Once with words, the second time with a scar. That she had not learned, and though her burden too great to bear, such that it merited trying to storm the gates of the Heavens themselves, was her problem.

Helm's eyes narrowed once again. The loss of divine power. He was tempted to snort in disdain. Half these gods knew nothing of what true loss was. Mortals were puppets to them, all of reality their plaything, with lives sold and wasted in their schemes for power among their fellows. Bane had exemplified that more than anything when he started this whole mess.

It was time for a reality check. A check that would soon be coming, in more ways than one.

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Weeeeelllll…. like I said, probably not my best work. I struggled on this one, and I only hope that the ones in the future aren't so bad.

I thank you all once again for the time and effort you have made to read this story, and for your patience in putting up with my ever increasing delays, and possible insanity (though I'm told feeling like you're losing your mind is a common side effect of going through Law School).

Until next time, everyone please stay safe, and live life to the fullest.

Red Mage 04, signing off for now.


	22. Chapter 21: Rest for the Weary

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**Hello again, everyone, glad to report that I was able to get this chapter done a little faster. I hope that you will all enjoy it, as I'm a little nervous, as per usual, about these things. Not really much to talk about here. Class and life continue as usual, and things are about as they always are.

So, I hope that you find this chapter to your liking, and that it's not a waste of your time.

Thanks again, everyone.

As a quick note- I have some personal disagreements with some of the directions that the Halo Franchise took in some of its EU aspects post Halo-3, and some of the content in this chapter and future ones will be different from the official stats/outcomes/whathaveyou. I apologize in advance for how this sounds (as I know it can be read as arrogance, and I hope it doesn't come off that way) and for anyone that I might inadvertently upset doing this. My thanks again for your patience in these matters.

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**Chapter Twenty One- Rest for the Weary**

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The Master Chief walked among the hallways and corridors of the _Forward unto Dawn_ his mind processing all the information that had been learned during their twin assaults upon Luskan and Mithril Hall. First, from his observations of the Dark Elves in action, they were highly skilled at small squad tactics, and had a knowledge of combined arms that surpassed any medieval army he had ever learned about on Earth, and anything he had seen here on the surface. However, there was an Achilles Heel, one that Drizzt had confirmed the existence of after the battle. While they were undeniably lethal in small groups, their lack of trust led to problems of hesitation and second guessing when they were ordered about on larger missions and 'unified' attack plans.

As he entered and elevator and pressed a button for the third floor, he tried to formulate how that might be used against them. It could be useful for sowing dissention and misinformation among their ranks, if only there was a way for them to infiltrate the Dark Elves' intelligence networks. He wasn't certain how something like that could be done, but he would wait and see if an opportunity developed. There had been little success in capturing Drow during the battle, but there were some slaves in the holding cells of their brig, awaiting interrogation along with the Luskans that they'd captured.

This brought him to another problem, what to do with their allies. Bruenor and his soldiers were incredibly skilled fighters, Drizzt, Neeshka, and Wulfgar no less so. However, problems were arising, as seen in Mithril Hall. While skilled with their bows and ranged weaponry, the Dwarven forces had been unable to inflict enough damage to stop the raging horde of bodies that the Dark Elves had thrown at them. It had taken heavy anti-infantry firepower, and an overwhelming shock and awe blitz from himself, the Lek'golo, and Orna's troops to drive them back. The Dwarves would have lacked the numbers to successfully retake the hall on their own, and that was with the Dark Elves being cut off from their magic.

Clearly, something had to be done to increase the combat effectiveness of the native soldiers. But how to do it? The solution to Neeshka, Wulgar, and the other humanoid's was fairly obvious: a crash course in small arms training. Drizzt and the Dwarves, however, were a tad more problematic. Submachine guns and plasma pistols might suffice for the latter, but the other weapons that the _Dawn_ had onboard were simply not geared towards use by individuals whose height maxed out around one and a quarter meters. Drizzt also seemed increasingly uncomfortable around high technology. Was it possible that the Dark Elf was gun-shy? His sensitive hearing might irritate him, but the Master Chief sensed that this was not the true cause. The Drow Ranger had been particularly unnerved by the presence of the thirty millimeter cannon he'd waded into the halls with the other day, even though he'd been wearing ear protection that would have provided him a significant measure of safety against the racket the gun made.

John concluded that he would have to find the solution to the problem as the elevator dinged open. He moved out and headed down a corridor towards an armory. That crash course would have to begin soon. They had no idea how long the so called 'Time of Troubles' would continue to last, and once it was over with, the Drow would want the Hall back. Its resources were too valuable to just allow the Dwarves to waltz in and take it back without a response.

As he made his way past the mess hall, he realized that the door was open, and he could hear the sound of raucous laughter coming from inside. He also heard the sound of a musical tune, the lyrics altered so that the natives could understand them. Even then, it seemed that Cortana had found a way to throw in a comically heavy French accent with the translation.

"If battle you choose to renew, we'll taunt you till we all turn blue; we turn our assess as you part, in your direction we all fart!"

The line was followed by what was unmistakably the sound of exaggerated human flatulence. The Master Chief recognized the tune, and the play that it came from. It appeared as though Johnson was introducing them to some of the Earth's 'classical' works, starting with satire and deconstruction. He stuck his head inside, and found that Orna, and several other Sangheili were present, along with Bruenor, Neeshka, Drizzt, Wulfgar, Cattie-Brie, and a handful of Dwarves and Plainsmen.

"Run away! Run away! It seems like a helpful solution!" one of the knights on the hologram shouted, while being pummeled by a combination of poultry and baguettes.

"To avoid this French Revolution!" another one added, barely avoiding a catapulted pig and trying desperately to stop a mob of angry French women from beating him with various household implements.

King Arthur strode forward as he finally broke free of the mob, announcing in song that it was time for an intermission. As the screen went dark, the last sound to wash over the group was of a large amount of miscellaneous heavy objects falling upon someone, barely audible over all the laughter that rocked the room. In truth, he was surprised that the Faerunians found it so funny. They probably didn't understand half of the references. But, on the other hand, they were bound within a lifestyle that was eerily similar to the one that had been portrayed on the screen, so perhaps they could relate more than he realized.

Small talk broke out among the others, but the Chief noticed that Johnson's laughter suddenly turned quite and bitter sweet.

"Run away… run away," he muttered, before hiding it and repeating another humorous line from the play.

Neeshka and Drizzt stared at him for a moment, their eyebrows raised. The Master Chief understood the sudden change, though.

While the song had been written and sung in jest, "Run Away" was a phrase that the UNSC and its personnel were all too familiar with. From the start of the Covenant War, it was all that the Humans had been able to do. Run away. Flee from this enigmatic alien juggernaut that was hell-bent on genociding them for a reason the Humans didn't even know. There had been eight hundred worlds at the start of the war, more than three trillion lives. Now, they had one world, and less than two hundred million souls left to tell the tale.

The cyborg's eyes drifted over to Mias Tarkimee, and he stared at the Elite commander for a few seconds. Once again his helmet was off, and the crisscrossing scars upon his head were visible to everyone. He stared at those, they seemed so familiar to him, something that he knew he should remember, but couldn't. Then he shook his head, and stepped forward.

"Hey, Chief," Johnson said, but he remained seated, rather than standing or saluting. The Spartan didn't mind, though. Protocols had become just a tad lax in the weeks since they had arrived. With only three of them on this ship belonging to the UNSC, they were bound to.

"I need to speak with Neeshka, Drizzt, and Wulfgar." John said, crossing his hands behind his back. The three addressed people looked over to him.

"What is this about?" Drizzt again seemed wary of the massive soldier before him.

"The Commander and I have been doing some talking, and we'd like to teach you a few things that can be passed on to your respective colleagues." He kept his speech as enigmatic as he could without sounding untrustworthy. If he mentioned firearms training around Drizzt it was possible the Dark Elf wouldn't want to comply and the Chief needed to find out what was going on in the Ranger's mind.

The three exchanged glances, and shrugged. They then followed the Spartan out of the room.

* * *

It took only a few minutes to reach an armory, where the Chief opened up a series of weapons lockers. The Faerunians seemed fascinated by some of the UNSC's security measures, especially the biometric scanners and voice authentication protocols. Wulfgar, however, noticed that there was an area at the far end of the armory that seemed sealed off, and brought it up.

"What lies beyond that area?" he asked, pointing to it

The Master Chief followed the direction of the Plainsman's finger, and understood. At the far end of the area was a triple sealed bulkhead, armored like a tank, with pop out points for A.I. controlled autocannons. He and the others were standing inside the Spartan's own weapon locker, reserved for specialty black ops weapons that were not always available to the rank and file marines. In the lockers around him, in addition to assault rifles, battle rifles, shotguns, SMGs, sniper rifles, mortars, rocket launchers and other such standard issue gear, were Spartan lasers, a number of additional ASG-60s that Cortana had turned out, man portable gauss cannons and rail rifles, and the like. This particular locker also held access to one of the specially hardened lockers. Ones that required the permission of the Captain and shipboard A.I. to unlock.

"Tactical NBC weaponry" the Spartan responded. "Weapons of mass destruction meant to turn the tide of a battle."

"Your normal ones don't do that enough?" Drizzt's tone was neutral, but the Spartan thought he detected animosity underneath it.

"As Spartans, we find ourselves going in alone, often times without the luxury of armor or heavy artillery support." He paused for a moment and cocked his head. "Think of it like being forced to move through a battlefield, always staying out of sight of the enemy, and the clerics and mages can't help you. You have to fend for yourself, or worse, support them when _they_ run into trouble. To accomplish that, we're usually given weapons to compensate." He shifted back to his task of gathering weaponry. "Remember, you've met our former enemies. They can more than equal what our weapons typically can do."

Neeshka seemed to shudder a bit, and a dark frown came over the Tiefling's face. The Spartan thought about asking her what the trouble was, but decided not to press the issue. Not yet.

"So, what exactly are you here to show us?" Wulfgar asked.

"Not show. Teach," the Master Chief said. He opened up the door to the next room. Inside was a firing range, separated from the rest of the ship by a half meter of Titanium-A armor plating. One could set a Havok thermo nuke off inside of this place and the rest of the ship would barely feel it. Additional bullet proof meshings lined the back of the range, the targets, and each of the firing stations, with machines in place to restore it to original condition when the range became cold. A good thing, considering it was occupied.

Unggoy soldiers were inside standing up on stools and step ladders as they discharged needlers, plasma pistols, and even the occasional energy carbine and heavy plasma cannon down range.

"Telas, tighten up that stance, Nekar, stop holding that pistol sideways, you are not here to show off!" Gazap was walking back and forth between the rows, his black eyes roaming over his troops like a hungry predator, looking for mistakes. The Spartan found himself oddly reminded of Chief Mendez as he watched the diminutive soldier make his rounds.

Gazap noticed his approach, and saluted, crossing his arm over his chest and bowing slightly.

"Welcome, Demon," he said, his voice slightly awed. "A moment, I will make room for you."

"I need three open slots," the Master Chief said, shifting the large pack on his back. Gazap nodded accordingly, and ordered his troops out of the way accordingly.

"What are we doing here?" Neeshka asked as the Spartan moved to the central slot, "and what did he mean, calling you a demon?" she raised an eyebrow.

"It's the title the Covenant gave me, after I helped take out an entire battle fleet," John responded. "The rest of the Spartans have similar titles." He started laying out weaponry, starting with the pistols and then began loading them up.

"That is a question I've been meaning to ask," Drizzt said, looking at the massive soldier in front of him. "What exactly is a 'Spartan?' I understand that it means you are something different from the normal soldiers of your… world," the Ranger's violet eyes shifted somewhat. "But what does it mean?"

The Chief paused for a moment as he set down an MA5B. How to explain that? How best to relate it? Better make it short and swift, highlight the major reasons, and then move on to the task at hand.

"The name comes from a city-state in the land of Greece, located upon Earth," he said, and turned to continue laying down weaponry. "The Spartans were an ultra militaristic regime, training their entire male population to be soldiers, starting from the age of six. They were raised in barracks, given little food, taught to steal and forage to make up for this. They were ruled by former soldiers who had survived all the battles they'd fought. Even in the other tasks they performed, they were taught to think with the discipline and will needed to fight on the battlefield." He loaded up an Oracle and placed it near the station that he would put Wulfgar at, before prepping another one.

"In the end, they left no art or great works of poetry or stone cutting like the other city states. They left one enduring legacy though." He turned to face the group. "About three thousand years ago, the Persian Emperor Xerxes launched an invasion of Greece. The Persians commanded an army of two hundred and fifty thousand soldiers, culled from an empire that spanned half the known world. In response, the Greeks formed a two prong defense, with the navy of a city state known as Athens blocking one route in, while a force of seven thousand footmen, led by King Leonidas and three hundred of Sparta's best took up a defensive formation in a pass called Thermopile."

"Seven thousand, against two hundred and fifty?" Wulfgar raised an eyebrow. "Odds even my people would baulk at."

"They held the pass for three days, and inflicted more than twenty thousand casualties upon Xerxes troops." The Spartan recited the lesson he had learned in his first day of training. "The ground was red with Persian blood, while the invaders marched over the bodies of their own comrades to reach the Greek lines. In the end, though, they were sold out." He paused, and looked at the natives, aware that some of the Grunts had also stopped firing and were listening to him. "A sheepherder, seeing a chance to get rich quickly, told the Persians of a small goat pass that led around the Greek lines. When they discovered this, the Greeks knew they finished. Leonidas sent the Athenians back to their city to evacuate the civilian population."

"What of he himself?" Wulfgar asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Leonidas, his Spartans, and a thousand troops from a rival city-state known as Thebes stayed to hold Xerxes army at bay." The Spartan turned back to his work, taking out a battle rifle. "Pressed from both sides, the remaining Greeks fought like they were possessed. They knew that every minute they held up the Persians was one more minute that their comrades had to retreat, regroup, and prepare. They held almost a full day."

"The Greeks…" Drizzt ventured.

"Dead to the last man. Leonidas himself was butchered, his corpse desecrated, and his head mounted upon a pike," the Master Chief said. "Their sacrifice, though, turned a tactical defeat into a strategic victory. They held up the Persians, let the other cities prepare, and the psychologically terrified the troops they faced. Our names are in memory of those soldiers."

"I see," the Drow responded.

"Which brings us to a similar problem," the Master Chief continued, seeing a chance to turn a history lesson into something a little more hands on. "The Spartans 'won' at the battle of Thermopile for three main reasons. The first is better training. While the former may not, unfortunately, apply to the majority of the troops from the Plainsmen tribes and the Lord's Alliance, it does apply to some of you. We can use that to our advantage with Bruenor's elite, the Knights of Silverymoon, and the Knights of Neverwinter, and going by my observations, even the lowliest of Ten Towns militia seems to worth a few of the fodder. The second reason behind the Greek's success was the cause. They fought for their homes and their families. The Persians were conscripts for the most part."

"Like the Drow slaves," Drizzt nodded. "We certainly hold the edge there."

"Correct. This will also ensure a tighter knit group, in terms of the big picture." The Spartan nodded his head, and double checked the sights on an assault rifle. "The third reason was a combination of having the advantages of defensive placement, and superior equipment." He placed the final weapon down, and then turned back to the group, clasping his gauntleted hands behind his back. "The Persians carried willow spears, linen armor, and wickerwork shields. The Spartans had iron spears and swords, and heavy bronze armor that covered almost all of their bodies. The Persians found their weapons almost completely combat ineffective against the Greek's defenses."

"Mithril Hall's lowest areas are a series of narrow tunnels," Wulfgar nodded, "but equipment wise we—"

John cut him off by pointing to the large amount of weapons that he had laid out before them.

"Your training starts now." He motioned for Wulfgar to come forward. The two of them were almost equal in height, and it would be easiest to demonstrate with him. "Over here, we'll start with the basics. Once I've taught the three of you what to do, we'll move on to having you assist Johnson and the Commander with teaching other individuals."

Wulfgar seemed to balk and opened his mouth to protest. Then he lowered his gaze, and the Master Chief knew that the Plainsman was thinking hard. He believed he knew why. The Plainsmen tribes seemed to bind themselves according to a strange code of honor, one that the Spartan admitted he didn't fully understand. They had raided the people of Ten Towns so often that the two groups had only agreed to work together when refusal meant their utter destruction. Even then, according to Regis and Drizzt, mind control magic had been involved to a degree. Yet at the same time, there was a strange "dignity", for lack of a better way of putting it, about their savagery. A determination to eek out a living on one of the most hellish environments this world had to offer. It seemed that along with that was some notion of fair play. They appeared to detest ranged weaponry aside from hunting purposes. It was time, then, for another lesson.

"You worry about whether or not there is 'honor' in such combat?" The Spartan asked.

"I will not deny the usefulness of your weapons in battle," Wulfgar said with a shake of his head, and then looked down at Aegis Fang. "But the enemy has no chance, he has no means of fighting back."

"Your hammer is magic, is it not?" The Spartan crossed his arms again.

"Yes, very powerfully enchanted at that." The Plainsman shook his head affirmatively.

"But most of your adversaries lack arcane equipment. I've seen what you can do with that thing. What defense can be mounted against a man armed with a weapon that can shatter a giant's spine with one swing? Who can throw it and have it magically returned to his grasp?"

Wulfgar opened his mouth again, but was cut off by Neeshka.

"What the Chief's saying, Wulf, is that there's no such thing as a fair fight. One party always holds the edge over the other." She looked him straight in the eye. "One person's always faster than the other. Always stronger, always got more friends at his back. By putting on magic stuff, or by using it to try and bash someone's head in, you're increasing that distance between yourself and another person, or attempting to make up for it against someone whose better than you."

"Correct." The Master Chief folded his hands behind his back. "I know this may offend some of your sense of morals, but the first thing that we Spartans are taught, is that if something is worth fighting for, worth _dying_ for, it's worth fighting dirty over. The only unfair fight is the one that you don't walk away from."

Drizzt seemed to retreat deeper into his cloak, but the Dark Elf's mind was a blur of thoughts. The Spartan's words echoed those of his father. He remembered when Zak, before he had revealed to Drizzt that he was indeed his father, had unleashed a series of light stones to disorient him during a training session when the younger Drow had been starting to gain the upper hand. He'd asked the weapon master if he so hated to lose. For a moment, the Ranger heard his father's voice once more.

_"Yes! Foolish boy, do you not understand what is at stake when you cross blades with another? You may win a hundred fights, a thousand, ten thousand, but you can only lose __once__!"_

There was truth to the words of the human soldier. Drizzt never once claimed to have fought fairly in his entire life. But there was fighting dirty, and then there was butchering without mercy or remorse. Again he found himself wondering what life did this Human lead, what wars did his kind wage, where such manner of heartless slaughter, of cold, ferocious 'battle' was not only accepted, but even encouraged? How much did he really know about this supposed ally? Aside from what they had done here, nothing. It was entirely possible that he was helping something far more dangerous than his people ever would be.

He found himself wishing that Geunivyer was with him. The panther was his truest friend, his dearest ally. But she needed her strength. He did not dare send her home until the problems with the Weave and the Gods was sorted out. So she lay within the depths of one of the barracks of this mysterious ship, with Cattie-Brie looking over her.

He wanted dearly to trust this man before him. This man whose actions, while cold and ruthless as any Drow soldier, had served to aid Bruenor so much. Mithril Hall had been retaken with virtually no casualties. The Barbarians had been saved from the Luskans and the Orcs, the shipments of food and treasure between the tribes and the Ten Towns were ferried with so little payment required. But in an instant, all that could change.

His thoughts drifted momentarily to his father, to Mooshie, his mentor, and then to the Thistletons… the farmers that he had tried to protect when he first came to the surface. They were all dead, his father for him, Mooshie of old age, and the Thisltons when a Barghast had assumed the Drow's form and slaughtered them for their life force. What would they want him to do? Should he cross the boundary that lay before him, should he accept this training, and whatever evils or aspects of goodness it would confer upon him?

He looked up to see the Spartan placing one of those 'pistols' in Wulfgar's hands. Within the hands of the Plainsman, it looked like a child's toy. Few could imagine that it could make a man explode like a wizard had set a fireball off inside of him.

"Do you understand how to aim it?" The Spartan asked, referencing the two raised areas along the 'spine' of the weapon.

"Yes, and this… safety, mechanism keeps it from firing?" Wulfgar asked, getting a nod.

"Now, for the next part, I'm going to teach you how to load and unload the weapon…"

The Ranger knew that it would not be long before it became his turn; it was time to make a decision. Again and again, he weighed the consequences. What he might gain, what his entire world stood to lose.

He was distracted by a sudden hissing noise from behind, and turned to see the door opening. Sergeant Johnson strode in, carrying his own sack full of weapons. To the Drow's immense surprise, were a number of the members of the Lord's Alliance, including Lord Nasher and Lady Falconhand. The latter took notice of the Dark Elf and smiled at him. The Dark Elf tentatively smiled back, before turning his attention to the UNSC Sergeant.

"Sorry to intrude, Chief, but we've got delegates from the Lord's Alliance here. We never did get a chance to show Nasher what we can do, and the rest of the Lords and Ladies want some reassurance that we can help with the Drow. They want to see it firsthand," Johnson said.

The Spartan nodded, and Johnson moved forward, setting down the rucksack that he was carrying, and pulling out a number of weapons that the Master Chief had not brought into the firing range. Meanwhile, the cyborg motioned for everyone to gather around the central shooting station. There was a moment of silence, while the Lords and Ladies of the cities of the Lord's Alliance formed a semi-circle around him.

"Cortana, can you pull up the two safety bars from around my position. I want everyone to be able to see this," the Master Chief said. The construct complied with his request, and there was suddenly a four meter wide gap in which to view the end of the shooting range.

Gazap promptly ordered a cease fire to all of his soldiers, and they stood back. There seemed to be a small amount of awe that glistened in their eyes. The Master Chief looked at them for a second, wondering why they gazed at him like they did. Then he picked up a pistol that was lying on the table. It was the C variant, a stripped down version of the M6D, issued to noncombat personnel.

"United Nations Space Command standard issue noncom sidearm, the Mark Six 'C' pistol," he said, showing the pistol around as Cortana put out new targeting dummies on the range. "The pistol is a short ranged 'last resort' weapon, intended to be used when the individual has no other alternative, or is working in a situation that requires a free hand. This device weighs about two pounds, unloaded, and features a smart link scope for linking up with UNSC biometrical neural laces, recoil dampening technology, and may be fitted with a suppressor to make the gun quieter for times when stealth is necessary." He looked around at the crowd before him. Some were looking a little lost, but others seemed to at least understand what he was telling them.

"The M6C fires modified fifty caliber ammunition," he held one of the bullets out, and motioned for it to be passed around among the group individuals. "The slug is depleted uranium, armor piercing and shredder variant, with a muzzle velocity of just over five hundred and fifty meters per second—a little more than eighteen hundred feet per second," he corrected himself. These people used a variation of the standard Imperial system, not metric, he reminded himself. "The weapon is accurate out to just over three hundred feet." He quickly loaded the pistol, and chambered a round. At the far end of the range was a target, that he noticed that Cortana had made to resemble an Orc. He was tempted to laugh.

"This target dummy is fashioned out of ballistics gel, a chemical compound that can almost perfectly mimic the flesh of a humanoid creature," the Master Chief continued. He waited until all eyes were back on him, and then acted. In a blur of motion, twisted, grabbed the pistol in both hands, sighted up the 'Orc' and fired a double tap.

The first round punched straight into the Orc's belly, ripping through the gel. Half the round sheared off and began to fragment as the other half punched on through and slumped into the back of the range. The second one ripped most of the target's head off.

The Spartan unloaded the pistol as Cortana reached out and brought the dummy back towards the watching group. With the Master Chief's help, it was disconnected, and laid out before the lords and ladies.

"As you can see, the shot to the torso almost completely disemboweled the target," Johnson spoke up, peeling back the wounded area and letting everyone see the shredded mess of gel that was inside of it. "If this sucker had been real, he'd currently be holding most of his guts in his hands." Johnson smirked behind his helmet. "Of course, that would also require that he have a sufficient amount of his central nervous system left to command his hands to reach out and grab said guts. Which as you can see, he clearly lacks," the ODST pointed to the head. "Not that they ever had much up there to start with."

A little bit of a chuckle broke out among the assembled people. The Chief was reminded of a classroom where students would laugh at any joke the professor made, good or bad, in order to keep the tension to a minimum. These people were still somewhat nervous about them.

"Neeshka," the Spartan said. "Come here. I want you to demonstrate how to use the pistol, now that you've seen it."

The Tiefling went red in the face all of a sudden, aware that eyes were upon her, and not all of them looking favorably. Lord Nasher's eyes fell upon her, and he motioned for her to step forward with a kind smile. The Tiefling chewed on her lips slightly, and then exhaled slowly. She walked forward to where the Chief was standing, and he extended the side arm towards her, barrel facing down, with the chamber open and the weapon still unloaded. Gulping softly, the girl moved up to the barrier between her and the range, looking for the same kind of magazine that the Chief had put down.

She could see Cortana putting another Orc out onto the range, as she found what she was looking for. She pulled the clip up, and looked down at the rounds, something that she had seen both the Master Chief and Sergeant Johnson perform many times, probably looking for defects in the rounds or something that was misaligned. She'd seen some crossbowmen do the same.

She put the clip in, noticing that the front portion of it had a small overhang at the bottom. The she reached up and pulled the main body of the weapon back. One of the bullets slid in, and she noticed the thing was larger than her thumb. Exhaling softly, she looked down the range and carefully tried to line up the weapon with the target. The Master Chief shifted suddenly, stepping behind her and gently grabbing her arms. He applied a gentle amount of pressure, and she understood that he was trying to adjust her stance. She was somewhat surprised. He had the strength to out wrestle Glabrezu and his arms were strong enough to shatter stone. That he could be gentle was something of a shock.

"Now," she heard his voice speak up, "look between the two sights. Line them up, the front one with the rear one." She did so, and his hands shifted forward, clasping around hers and moving her fingers slightly. "Watch your grip. The recoil dampeners will keep most of the kick from reaching you, but if you're not holding it tight enough, it'll throw your aim off."

He then backed off. "Go ahead."

Neeshka pulled the trigger, and the gun kicked softly in her hands. She pulled the trigger once more, and then a third time. The shots were dead on, and the Orc dummy was little more than a shredded mess by the time that she got through with it. She could feel the shock on her own face, and she almost forgot to unload the gun when she put it back down.

"Nice shooting," Johnson said, walking up and clapping her on the shoulder. "I'd say you're a natural at this."

The Tiefling smiled faintly, and then moved backwards, somewhat nervous about all the eyes that were coming down on her again.

"Next up is the MA5B assault rifle," Johnson said, moving over to where it was. "This baby fires seven-six-two millimeter NATO depleted uranium rounds at four times the speed of sound itself, and can empty its sixty round mag in less than four seconds."

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And so it went. Every weapon was covered in detail, each one more dangerous and devastating than the last. Then holographic battle recordings were shown of the heavier weapons, rocket launchers, thirty millimeter vulcan cannons, the massive assault cannons that Lotar and Denos had used against the Luskans, and finally the Spartan Laser. The crowd has gasped in shock as they watched a single shot from the shoulder mounted weapon reduce the Earth Elemental that Briza had summoned to molten lava and vaporized rock.

Then came defensive demonstrations, as the Lords and Ladies were invited to swing their personal weaponry at the Master Chief, and bore witness to how none of their swords, axes, or maces could harm the cyborg as the crackling lightning of his shields stopped the melee weapons cold.

At last, the demonstration came to an end. Small talk was made among the lords and the ladies, and the Master Chief could tell that there was a heated discussion going on about what to do in light of their new allies.

"Butchery," Drizzt whispered, and the Spartan turned to face him. "What is your reality like, where you must arm and defend yourself as such?" He could hear distaste in the voice of the Dark Elf, and he cocked his head to the side as he walked over towards him.

"Does our technology bother you?" the Spartan asked.

"Yes," the Drow hissed, "yes it does. With weapons like this, what's to stop one man from butchering dozens before he can be stopped? What's to stop massacres from occurring? People dying needlessly?" he looked up at the Spartan as Lady Falconhand walked over towards them. "What is it about your world that necessitates the existence of devices capable of such bloodshed?" the last sentence was loud enough to be heard by all, and everything grew eerily silent.

Glances were exchanged, and the Master Chief frowned behind his helmet. Drizzt was the foremost expert here on Drow tactics. They didn't need him agitated like this. He had to be made to understand. And the Spartan looked down at the man, so small, so seemingly fragile before him, and then over to the members of the Lord's Alliance. The gaze that he was receiving was one similar to the one that Neeshka had received. He remembered the Tiefling's words, that no one came to this area of the world by choice, they were driven here by criminal records or social stigmas.

And Drizzt lived outside of the towns. He remembered the raid, Drizzt's mention of them being somewhat common, and even having been on one himself. Things started to fall into place. Like Neeshka, he faced his own social prejudices because of his heritage, because of the fear that he was a Drow, and because of that, he would stab everyone in their sleep at the first opportunity, or perhaps sacrifice their souls in some unholy ritual. Here, he had found a little niche to fit in, even if it was clinging to life on frozen rocks with no friends outside of the Dwarf Clan.

To be hated, fear, and hunted simply because of what he was. The Spartan felt a moment of kinship with the Dark Elf, and he looked over to Johnson. The Sergeant Major understood, and nodded.

"Follow us, we'll show you why we needed these…" he removed his helmet, and the Spartan nearly did a double take. The Sergeant's face was a mask, but his eyes were filled with grief. Something had happened, some memory stirred up.

With Johnson in the lead, it didn't take long for them to arrive at a briefing room.

"Cortana, you got access to my index?" the Helljumper asked.

"Affirmative, Sergeant. What are you looking for?"

The ODST spouted off a series of time date index numbers, and a moment later, an image appeared on one of the two holotanks. It showed what had once been a city, now reduced to a bombed out waste. Johnson was looking out a window, and the Master Chief saw a few wounded Marines and Army soldiers behind him. He cocked his head for a moment, and then realized something. This was Azure Twelve, an Earth-Type planet that he and his fellows had battled on during the first few years of the Covenant War. It was an outer colony, hive-world class, home to approximately three quarters of a billion people. The Spartan nodded to himself and then stepped forward, requesting his own time index. It opened up with a Pelican interior, and seventeen of his brothers and sisters.

"Play," they both said.

The recordings started, and hell was unleashed.

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Okay, well, this one was a little shorter than most, and I hope that's not too much of an issue. I'll have the next chapter done ASAP, but I'm going to extend a warning here and now: Chapter Twenty Two will detail a segment of the Human/Covenant war in all its brutality. To say that it will be gruesome and possibly unsettling content will be present will be like saying that Rome suffered some mild political upheaval around 476 A.D.

That said, I wish you all well. Until next time, this is Red Mage 04, signing off.


	23. Chapter 22: Battlefields

Hi everyone, been a while I know. School's been a pain, as they say. My research for my comparative law topic is not going as well as I'd like, and Administrative Law is something else, requiring a different approach than what I'm used to. I'll pull through, hopefully, but it leaves me with little time for other things in life. I thank you for your patience regarding this, and hope that this chapter is good enough to be worth the wait.

At any rate, I should warn you in advance that this chapter is both a deviation from Halo canon in a way (the rough draft was started before Contact Harvest was published) and is rather, well, gruesome, if I may say so. I tried to capture the horror of a genocidal war, but I'm not sure if I succeeded.

Couple of quick notes-

To the individual who notified me of the Arbiter's name, thank you for the courtesy. I've been aware of the improper name for the Arbiter that I've been using for some time, but the truth is that I started this story back in 2007, well before Cole Protocol came out, and frankly, it would be a bit of a mess to try and change it so many times, as throughout the posted story and remaining rough draft, not including stuff yet to be written, I've got about 7-800 pages worth of story here. Thanks again, though, I appreciate the thought.

Lord of murder- since my hotmail account seems to have misplaced your review- my thanks to you. I'm glad that you liked the story, and I hope I can continue to keep this thing up to quality standards.

Musical Influences for this chapter:

The Last Spartan- Halo 2

Carrionite Swarm- Doctor Who

The Dark And Endless Night- Doctor Who

Scorched Earth- Avatar

That said, here we are at last.

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**Chapter Twenty Two- Battlefields of Blood and Tears**

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The Master Chief watched as both of the screens came to life. He and his siblings were in their old Mark IV suits, the dull green plates scratched and scored by plasma fire. Their helmets, slightly bulkier and more elongated than the Mark VI he wore now, reflected each other's gaze. Over their comlinks was the voice of Admiral Cole, informing them of various statistics of Azure Twelve. Population, strategic importance, local defense forces, and what had happened. Crackles of static occasionally came over the signal as an especially powerful burst of ECM and ECCM disrupted it, or a large weapon detonation.

Johnson's was the one that most of the natives focused upon. He was down in the thick of things.

"Say again, Fleetcomm, local defense garrisons have been overrun!" someone shouted, and Johnson turned around to face him. The Master Chief saw a pale skinned young man, half his face burned black and red by proximity plasma fire, shouting into a satellite uplink. Johnson's implants identified him as private first class Derrick Toliver. "Covenant forces too strong. We need air and armor support, reinforcements, everything you can spare!"

"Much regret, unable," came a garbled voice from the other end. "Covenant naval forces too thick, Seraphs…"a long burst of static split the transmission "…Cruisers everywhere. Can spare one dropship. Already inbound to your position… Admiral wants you to link up with them and press into the downtown region of New Bismarck. Do you copy?" a pause. "Repeat, groundside, do you copy?"

"A single dropship?" Johnson spoke up, walking over as the whole building shook and a flash of light filled the room. "That's not reinforcements, that's a goddamn funeral detail!" he pushed the private aside and stood in front of the small device. "Listen, I don't know what you flyboys are going through up there, but down here, it's the damned Apocalypse! There's nothing left, we're down to twenty men fit to fight, and there's nothing between these split chinned bastards and the civilian population of New Bismarck but a bunch of blown up buildings and the Fortress." He shook his head. "We need something to work with. Give us some Longswords, Skyhawks, death from above!" The building shook again. "We've got _nothing_ down here. Nothing!"

"You have your orders. I'm sorry, but there's nothing more that we can spare. Friendly dropship's coming down a half click south by southwest of your position. That's all I can tell you."

"Fleetcomm!" Johnson practically roared. A burst of static met him. "Fleetcomm! Damnit Toliver, get them back up."

"The link's fine, Sergeant," the PFC said with a shake of his head. "Trouble's on their end of things."

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," someone whispered. Johnson turned and observed a somewhat lanky man of Asiatic descent, identified as Private Adam Kamiara. He wasn't a marine, but a member of the UNSC army, judging by the uniform and digital identification tags. "This is it, we're about to get slagged!" he started whimpering and rocking back and forth, clutching at his assault rifle until his knuckles turned white.

"For the love of…" Johnson trailed off, before walking up and yanking the man off his feet. "Look, landlubber, this is my world too, and I am not about to let these xeno bastards take it away from us! Now, pull yourself together, or I swear on my grandmother's grave I will throw you out that window and leave you for the Jackals!"

"While I agree with you, sir, I can't say I blame him," Toliver said. "We've all seen what happens after the flyboys go down." The man paused. "I'm not afraid to fight, but Allah have mercy, I don't want to die like that."

"I don't want to either," Johnson said, lowering Kamiara back to the floor, "but if we don't do something, a whole lot of people are going to get killed. Men, women, children. Unarmed, scared. You want that to be the last thing you take with you to the grave, trooper? That in your last minutes, you were too scared about your own tail to worry about the civvies you signed on to protect?"

"'Whole lot of people are already dead, including most of those men, women and children," Toliver responded. He moved over towards what appeared to be an ammunition stockpile. "I don't want anyone else to die either, but let's be realistic; it's going to take a miracle to pull this one off."

"Friendly dropship, inbound!" someone said, and a mad dash to the window ensued, before Johnson harshly called them back.

The Master Chief digested what he saw with great interest. He'd fought the Covenant thousands of times on hundreds of worlds, and after a while, they all just started to blur together. He hadn't even known that this was where Johnson had come from, up until he'd seen what Johnson was calling out, he'd forgotten that Johnson had even _been_ on that planet. He felt a pang of sympathy for the sergeant.

Back on the holovid, he signaled for his team to move. Blue Team went out first, Kelly and Linda taking point. The former braced a BR-55 against her shoulder, the latter an Oracle. Both had shotguns strapped to their backs, loaded with explosive ammunition, and Kelly also sported a rocket launcher. James and Kurt bolted next, taking up flanking positions. They'd keep their UAV out of the sky for now. Intel was sketchy at the moment, and they had no idea how many Covenant troops were present in New Bismarck. They caught sight of the little aerial vehicle, and the jig was up. William and Fred followed him out, followed by the other members of Red and Green Teams. They scattered into the back allies and focused on a waypoint that had been erected.

"Form up into your squads, radio silence unless hard contact is initiated. Move towards the waypoint. Acknowledge," he said.

A series of lights across his HUD flashed, and like ghosts, the Spartan-II's began to move.

It was five hundred meters to the target. Five hundred meters of hell. Burnt out buildings stood like skeletal guardians of the once proud city, while others were half slagged mounds of metal alloy or had been reduced to vapor in their entirety. The ground and streets were covered in blood and bodies, most of them Human. Every here and there was a shredded body of what had once been a Jackal, or a pile of meat and metal covered in sky-colored blood. Splashes of dark purple and the occasional luminescent orange could be found as well.

Civilian and soldier alike lay upon the ground; judging by the positions of the bodies, the latter had probably fallen trying to prevent the former from being gunned down. They lay with their bodies half vaporized by plasma, or strewn all over the rubble where well placed needler rounds had ripped their bodies apart like a grenade had exploded inside of them. Other had just enough of their mass left for rigor mortis to contort their bodies into pain twisted effigies of what a human should look like.

The Master Chief looked down as he moved up in a back alley, his enhanced vision picking up a cold lump in front of him. He looked at it for a split second, before carefully rolling it over. There were no booby traps left by the Covenant. What lay in front of him, though, was a small child, about five or six, if he were to hazard a guess. The pattern of a small dress was burned into her flesh. She'd been branded by a proximity detonation, probably a plasma grenade or something similar. But that hadn't killed her. He throat was slit, and her corpse looked as if it had been gnawed upon. Jackals had done this.

A great flash and an aurora borealis filled the evening sky. Admiral Cole was unleashing Shivas. Not a good sign. It meant he was getting desperate. As they had descended to the surface, the last of the ten SMACs that had defended Azure Twelve had been reduced to a slagged ruin. Time was running out. He paused just long enough to close the glassy, unblinking eyes of the child, and then moved forward. Kelly and Linda were across the street in another alley. They'd noticed the body too, judging by their body language. They were tightened in their stances, like predators waiting to pounce. Linda flashed her fingers across her visor, turning them down at the last moment. It was a Spartan hand signal meaning vengeance. The Master Chief returned the gesture, and then signaled them onward. There would be a time for avenging these people later. Right now, they needed to make certain that more didn't join the ranks.

Another burst of light filtered down from above, a critically damaged Longsword, visible only through Spartan Time. It blasted overhead, disappeared among the buildings, and a great flash followed. A mushroom of blue fire formed, swallowing the buildings on the horizon front of them with its fury.

The Master Chief remembered his temperature gauge spiking and the shockwave rattling his metal bones as the reactor destabilized. He wondered how many hiding refugees had been consumed when the fighter had been destroyed.

* * *

Neeshka and Drizzt stood side by side, each one watching the twin films with horrific interest. Neeshka felt her insides churn as she watched the Spartans move through the rubble. Her mind flashed to Ember, where she, Kale, and the others, had stared at the bodies of the people that Lorne Starling and his Luskan minions had butchered without mercy. It was that all over again, only on a much greater scale. She looked over to Sergeant Johnson's memories. He was staring out the window of a building, looking at the explosion that seemed to be miles wide. The skyline of this 'New Bismarck' stretched forward forever. It went all the way to the horizon with buildings so tall it was a wonder they didn't intrude upon the domains of the Gods. Scores were gutted and half melted by some unseen force, as if the Hells themselves had paid them a visit.

How many people had died here? Slaughtered like sheep…

Then she looked back over to the Master Chief's, and she saw the child. The eyes that stared upwards into nothingness and a body that looked as if wolves had partially devoured it. She forced herself to hold down her food as she became aware of others entering the room. She didn't turn to look and see whom it was, though some of the voices seemed familiar. She could not pull herself away from what was on the screen before them. She gazed back over to Johnson's and the carnage that lay upon it. Soldiers were missing their arms and their legs, others had bandages covering one of their eyes, or faces that looked as if they'd been stuck into a blacksmith's forge and then pulled back out.

Somehow these men remained on their feet, refused to lay down and die. They clutched at their weapons, some in terror, some in rage, some with a calm, impassive look on their face that Neeshka had seen before in soldiers exposed for far too long to the horrors of the battlefield.

As for Drizzt, the Dark Elf kept himself well hidden within the depths of his cloak. He gazed at the little girl and felt his soul crack and threaten to shatter. Images became superimposed. He saw a little Moon Elf girl, her whole village slaughtered by the hands of his fellows. He saw himself desperately work his scimitars over her body, covering her in so much blood from her slain mother that she looked to have been carved up like a roth, a frantic bid to make his comrades mistake her for dead. The features changed, Moon Elf became Human, and he felt his hands tremble in rage as he looked at Liam Thistledown, the boy who had naively 'befriended' him when he was alone, after the Barghest fiend had left the boy half eaten within his family's farmstead. The Hunter, that dark, cold, anger filled portion of him that had kept him alive during his decade of living alone in the Underdark, raged and screamed within him. It wanted to be unleashed, for him to draw his scimitars and find the ones who had did this.

By the time he snapped out of it, he realized that the two groups were close to making contact with one another.

"Moving up stairwell forty two," he heard the Master Chief say. "Stand by for contact."

Johnson and the others said nothing, but trained their weapons upon the door. Drizzt raised an eyebrow for a second, and wondered what was going on with that. Did they fear subversion, or was this merely a safety protocol? This was the kind of paranoia he would have expected from his people, not the UNSC. The Dark Elf strained his sensitive ears, trying to hear the sounds of the approaching soldiers. The only warning he got was when they opened the door with a single hand, and a gauntleted fist came through the gap.

"Friendlies, moving in," this time the voice was audible without the radio static. "Check fire, check fire."

The weapons were lowered slightly, and then the door opened the rest of the way. The members of the Spartan teams moved in, and everyone in the room seemed to draw back. The Dark Elf heard Johnson gasp.

"What the hell?" he heard one of the soldiers gasp, his voice filled with awe as he staggered away from this armored juggernaut that moved over the floor as if it were a ghost, making no noise, moving far too fluidly to be a human.

Others swore quietly, and some simply stood there silently. The Drow supposed that from their perspective, this was something wholly new and otherworldly. Details sprang up along Sergeant Johnson's "HUD" displaying the ranks of each of the soldiers, along with call signs. Drizzt noticed that unlike the ones that showed up with a normal soldier was focused on, there were no names for these soldiers. This was a fact that did not seem to be lost upon the rank and file, judging by the whispers that broke out among them. Eyes also focused on the impressive array of weaponry that the green armored soldiers carried with them, including two that were holding tri-barreled devices that reminded Drizzt of a slightly smaller version of what the Master Chief had carried back in Mithril Hall, and a third who carried what looked like the 'oracle' weapon that he'd seen both the Spartan and Johnson use, except it was larger, with some kind of strange black attachment that ran from the weapon to a backpack. It also had a strange attachment where the ammunition holder would be, resembling a large circular drum.

"Master Chief, Sir?" Johnson said, snapping into what appeared to be a strange form of salute and drawing his attention back to the events occurring before him. Neeshka found herself surprised. He looked so young—well, younger than he was now, considering he was eighty five years old at the current moment—and his Helljumper armor was nowhere to be seen. Instead he wore the green and steel colored armor of a UNSC 'Marine.'

"At ease, Sergeant, who's in charge here?" the Spartan asked.

"At the moment, me. Our El-Tee got his head taken off by a plasma rifle five minutes into the shooting war. That was about twelve hours ago. Army didn't fare any better."

"The rest of the platoon also dead?" The Spartan cocked his head to the side.

A bitter chuckle echoed through the air, and both of the points of view focused on a soldier called Eric Fitzgerald.

"Platoon, sir?" the man seemed to be a corporal, if Drizzt was reading his information correctly. "Shit, Fleetcomm must not have given you the full four-one-one on what's going on down here. You're looking at all that's left of New Bismarck's Marine-Alpha and Army-Beta divisions. We've tried to raise any other pockets or survivors, but nothing. We're it, Sir."

There was a moment of stark silence, and Drizzt looked over to the others. They also had confusion. The images in front of them paused for a second as Dove opened her mouth to speak.

"What are these divisions that the soldier speaks of?" she asked.

"UNSC army and marine corps organization," the Master Chief said. "It consists of fifty thousand front line troops—riflemen, grenadiers, marksmen, heavy weapons, etc.—their support troops, auxiliaries, and their integrated recon vehicles, armored personnel carriers, tanks, artillery and close air support."

A heavy, chilling silence fell over the group of natives as their minds tried to comprehend what that meant. Dove looked to Drizzt, Bruenor to Wulfgar, Neeshka to Lord Nasher. Such an organization was larger than the military forces of half the Lord's Alliance itself, possibly more than that, depending on how large the other 'support forces' were. And two of them had been reduced to less than threescore men in twelve hours?

Neeshka felt horror and nausea well up inside of her. Warfare on that scale, bloodshed of that magnitude… whole wars that had raged upon the surface of Faerun, with villages and cities put to the torch, men, women, and children slaughtered without mercy or pity. All of it seemed so… inconsequential, compared to this. And this was one city. Another chill worked its way up her spine. While it was true that the UNSC seemed more militant in nature than Neverwinter, in the case of her home city, there was one professional soldier for about every fifty people. If that was the case, then the past twelve hours had seen the deaths of millions.

"Resume play," the Master Chief said.

"Any word on Gamma, Delta, or any of the other Divisions?" his younger self asked Johnson. "Fleetcomm's last message from them was that they were at half strength and had no tanks or APCs left. They were falling back towards the Fortress with a number of civilians."

"That's the last we got as well." Johnson said, shaking his head, and staring down at his boots. "What's the Admiral got in mind?"

"As of right now, ONI is taking over this operation, and NavSpecWep has control. You operate under our orders, and through our chain of command." The Master Chief gazed around, as if taking stock of the room once again, seeing how many were fit to fight. "Under UNSC protocol Alpha-to-Omega, this has become an off the record mission. We were never here; you never assisted us. You will adhere to this protocol under the jurisdiction of the UNSC war crimes tribunal. Violation will be considered treason… understood?"

Johnson nodded his head. "Everyone get that?"

"What's going on?" Lord Nasher asked. The recordings were paused once again, and Johnson turned to face him.

"For most of their careers, UNSC high command wanted the Spartans existence kept secret. Anyone who worked with them was sworn to keep their mouths shut about them. Didn't want to get people's hopes too high." He said. "Wasn't until about two decades in that they finally decided to stop with the cloak and dagger…" he caught himself, reminding himself that swearing in front of the Lord of Neverwinter was probably not the best move he could make "At any rate, what that mumbo-jumbo meant was that if we blabbed about them existing, we'd either wind up in a brig cell for a nice long time to reflect on our actions, or they'd just save the taxpayer's money and give us a seven-sixty-two millimeter headache." He pointed to the assault rifle on his back. Nasher nodded in understanding.

"Tyr's lost hand…" the words came from Khelghar, and Johnson raised his eyebrows. He wasn't aware that the Dwarven monk had been present.

Play resumed again.

"What are our orders, then, Master Chief?" Johnson asked.

"We're to support an evacuation of the New Bismarck populace by taking out Covenant surface to orbital guns and liberating any civilian populations we come across," the Spartan said.

"And the Covenant?" one of the Army troopers asked.

"Terminate with extreme prejudice…" he said, and turned to face the rest of the assembled soldiers. "Gather weapons and ammo. If it launches, lacerates, or detonates, I want it coming with us. That includes everyone fit to fight. Those who cannot will be left here for a UNSC dropship to retrieve." He turned to face his own troops. "Blue Four, you take point, Blue Three, back her up. Green Leader, you and your squad procure that fifty cal…"

* * *

Neeshka felt as though hours had passed before them. Her feet ached, and she felt tired, her brain numb and aching, but she still could not tear her eyes away from what was before them. The Spartans were magnificent in action, moving like blurs, as if they could read each other's minds. But that was only part of the reason. The carnage went on and on. Bodies lay contorted in the streets, corpses for whatever beasts and fowl chose to try and feast upon them. Here a UNSC soldier lay, an arm and a leg blown clean off, his rifle a few feet away from his body, his remaining arm reaching for it. There, a middle aged man lay facedown on the blood soaked street, a large hole clean through his torso. Underneath him, she could see a smaller body, a child, also dead.

On and on it went, like some macabre tribute to the God of death. Men and women. Elder and child. Soldier and civilian.

Every now and again, a massive bolt of blue-green energy would streak up from ahead. She had no idea what was causing it, but she knew that it couldn't be good. Her tail made its way to her hands and she clutched at it in confusion and fear. This was alike a scene from her nightmares, where she was dragged screaming into the hells, damned by her infernal blood. The scorched flesh and bone reached upwards like the screaming of condemned souls, and she could imagine the screaming of these people in their last moments of agony.

And in some disturbing way, the Master Chief and his fellows were like vultures. Anything that was still intact and useful was collected from the bodies. Medical kits, ammunition, grenades, weapons, even ammo drums from shattered vehicles were taken and strapped to the backs of the Spartan soldiers. They picked everything clean, with the Master Chief himself leaning down and trying to free something identified as an M6-J carbine from a dead army soldier. The man's death grip on the weapon was strong, and the cyborg was forced to break the fingers wrapped around the gun in order to get it loose. That done, he grabbed the ammunition from the soldier's supply pouches, and resumed his journey alongside his fellows.

As they had progressed forward, some of the groups had begun spreading out, as if they were attempting to flank. Communication was done via hand signals and the winking of strange lights on their HUDs. The Master Chief explained what they were, and what was going on. After a few more minutes of hellish landscape, though, she was startled by the sound of a repeated staccato echoing, and a loud roar. A viewing module appeared inside of the Master Chief's display, and Neeshka realized he was watching the HUD of another Spartan. Identification at the top indicated that it was an individual known only as Red One.

A Warthog rushed by, with three people inside of it. One man drove, another was firing his assault rifle out of the back of the craft, while a third manned the massive gun on the back. A bolt of green energy impacted in front and to the side of the craft. The blast erupted outwards, and everything within thirty feet turned to ash, while the blastwave picked the warthog up and threw into the side of a building across the street from where the Spartan was hiding. The force and speed that the vehicle impacted with was strong enough to smash through the mortar and steel of the already weakened building, and the Tiefling winced as a loud crunch reached her ears. A choked off scream resounded moments later, coming from the man on the back. While his comrades in the front had been killed instantly, by blast or impact she did not know, this man still lived. For how long was anyone's guess, as the heat of the explosion had burned most of his clothes from his body, charred his skin, while bones protruded from his legs and chest, along with a couple of pieces of metal. Neeshka could see the man's agony, but somehow, he kept fighting, the massive weapon thundering at whatever unseen foes assaulted him.

Three blue lines flashed across the Spartan's field of view, and left her eyes dazzled. When she blinked away the spots, the gunfire had stopped, the weapon the soldier had manned reduced to a half melted mess.

His face a twisted mask of agony, the soldier, identified as Jonathan Smith, reached for a pistol on his hip that had somehow survived the blast. Before he could even draw it, though, a forth bolt streaked in and took his arm off at the elbow. He slumped in the harness, biting off his screams. Red One zoomed in on the man, and Neeshka could see him biting his lip, the tender, burned flesh bleeding profusely as he fought to keep his pain under control.

Something drew near, flashing on the Spartan's motion sensor. It was large, a group of strange, avian like creatures. They hunkered behind shimmering shields, and wore some kind of strange armor and visors. Then her breath caught in her throat. Standing tall among them, wrapped in armor the color of human blood, was a Sangheili. The marine struggled as the muscled behemoth drew near, and then a Lek'golo stepped out of the shadows. Neeshka blinked, once, twice, three times. Horror began to well up inside of her. She looked over to the Master Chief, who nodded softly at her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. So what Johnson had been claiming at the raided village had been true. The Sangheili had made war upon humanity.

The Sangheili warrior spoke then.

"You have fought well, Human," It said, tearing him out of his harness and holding him up above the ground. The man barely choked off a pain ridden scream. "I am impressed by your courage and your spirit. Know, heretic, that we are not entirely without mercy. I will grant you a swift death."

"Fuck… you…" Smith replied, summoning up the strength to spit on the creature that held him. The blood tainted saliva trickled down an unseen force field as the Sangheili shook its head.

"Even in the face of death you hold to your convictions. Again you impress me." Its mandibles were spread wide in a smile.

Red One's HUD lights flashed in a coded message.

"Requesting permission to engage," the Master Chief said to the onlookers.

A red flash returned.

"Permission denied."

The Sangheili placed its rifle against Smith's head and pulled the trigger. Neeshka closed her eyes, but opened them a moment later as a loud squawk reached her ears. Smith's execution had flushed some civilians out of hiding. A man and a woman of middle age, a boy in his early teens, and a younger sibling, about four years old if the Tiefling were to hazard a guess. As the family rushed up the street, trying to get into one of the alleys, two of the bird-like creatures raised their guns, and fired. Green bolts of energy tore into the group, and they had scarcely made it ten meters before they were slain. Their smoldering, shattered bodies rolled to a halt and the Sangheili nodded, before moving his squadron further up the path the Humans had taken.

As Red One and his team began to move up the stairs of the shattered building they occupied, the Master Chief and his drew ever closer to their target. Neeska could see the top of a large device emerge from between the skeletons of the buildings. The Spartans and the rest of the defenders began to spread out, preparing themselves for their attack.

"Why?" Drizzt asked suddenly.

"Yes," Dove whispered, looking up at the Master Chief. "Why did you just let that happen? Why didn't you do something?"

John stared down at the woman. Her gold eyes, silver hair, and tapered ears marked lineage with at least some Elvish ancestry. Those eyes were currently wide with rage and hate.

"Our wars are not like yours… milady," he said, cocking his head to the side and clasping his hands behind his back. "Here, if you were to slaughter an Orc patrol, or a group of Luskans, you would have hours to move about unchecked, until they were missed back at the base. With our technology, those hours become minutes, possibly seconds if they can get a radio warning off. Then our cover is blown. The Covenant knows we're there. They're alert, and their defenses become that much harder to crack."

"It's not an easy decision, and never something you want to find yourself making," Johnson said, his voice quiet. "But it's four people, or the remaining civilian population of New Bismarck." There was a strange resignation in his voice.

A silence settled over the group assembled before them. Neeshka slowly nodded her head, as if in understanding. One by ones the others did as well. The simmering anger and helpless rage was visible in their eyes, but they seemed to be understanding what was going on at least.

* * *

The minutes passed, and the group arrived at a large clearing. A massive, cylindrical device pointed up towards the sky, firing every few seconds.

"Covenant surface to orbital gun," the Master Chief said as his past self spread his forces out and moved through the gutted buildings. "Effective range of over a hundred thousand miles. Think of it as an anti-spelljammer weapon."

The Marines and Army troops that were still alive took positions up around him. He sent Kelly and Linda twenty stories up to get a good sniping position, and serve as secondary spotters for Red Team's one-twenty mortar in the event of their UAV being destroyed. He braced his M6J against his shoulders and double checked the mag. The weapon was an army issue carbine that could double as a SAW in a pinch, featuring a one hundred and twenty round double-drum magazine. It fired the same armor piercing explosive rounds as the M6D, but it could shoot them more accurately and with a higher rate of fire. While it only had an effective range of four hundred meters, at the distance he was at now, that wouldn't be much of an issue.

Hundreds of Covenant troops milled about the multi-story gun and around an intact structure that was off to the side. White armored Sangheili and a few Lek'golo milled about it, as alert as ever. They would be the greatest threat. He wasn't certain if their mortars would chew through the defenses that they had. Still, there was only one way to know for sure, and they had to knock that gun off line.

He paused for a moment, staring at the door, and then zoomed his visor in. He saw a human civilian, a middle aged man, being marched past the front door and deeper into the building by an Elite. A frown came over his face. He pointed it out to the rest of the Spartans, and tagged the building as a secondary objective.

One by one, the teams winked acknowledgement lights. They were ready. Then he sent the signal. It wasn't much, three quick flashes and a fourth one that was slower.

Engage.

The UAV went up, a silent spy to guide death down on top of the enemy. Coordinates relayed between the onboard computer and the Spartans of Red Team. Visual feedback allowed him to see the first one hundred twenty millimeter mortar slide down the tube. Electromagnetic forces combined, and flung it out. It went from the building top that the team was on, more than ten klicks distant, and descended right into the center of the largest cluster of Grunts and Jackals.

A great roar ensued and they disintegrated into blobs of meat, bone, and blood. Everything within thirty meters became a pool of gore, while shrapnel pinged off the armor of the massive gun—armor that was as thick as a Hunter's shield. The second and third mortars were already in the air.

"Break radio silence. Dynamic!" The Master Chief shouted. His HUD became alive with targeting symbols as Green Team, Blue Team, and the normal soldiers opened fire. Off to his left, Blue Five, James, opened fire with another procured fifty caliber tribarrel heavy machine gun. Hypersonic rounds tore down range, joined by fire from Green Team, creating a horrific crossfire.

A line of purple and blue erupted across the open square as Green Two unleashed the fury of his M99 Stanchion. The gauss rifle spat a 5.4x99 millimeter DU slug at velocities approaching seventeen thousand meters per second. Lightning crackled as the Elite's were hit by the massive anti-armor weapon. A double tap ripped one commander to pieces as his shielding failed and he exploded like a grenade had gone off inside of him.

The Master Chief snapped out, sighted up a group of Jackals that were shifting around in confusion. A hole opened up in their shield wall, and he fired the carbine. The explosive rounds left his weapon and ripped into them. Purple blood and flesh splattered against the shimmering hemispheres of their shields among flashes of fire and screams of pain.

Mortars two and three rained down slaughtering the light infantry troops present. From up above, Linda entered the fray. A series of SABOT rounds left her rifle, smashing into a blue armored Elite that was trying to rally his troops under a hail of machinegun fire. His shields flickered and faded in time for a trio of fifty caliber rounds to penetrate the open slit of his helmet and his mouth. The decapitated corpse fell to the ground, buried by the panicking Grunts and Jackals.

The Lek'golo roared and raised their assault cannons.

"Defilade! Defilade!" the Master Chief shouted.

A bolt of green energy green energy, followed swiftly by another, flew through where they were hiding. The Spartan's temperature gauge shot up to over five hundred degrees as the plasma blob smashed through a wall behind them and showered the group with molten metal and rock.

"Take those things out!" the Spartan exclaimed.

M99 rounds pinged and thudded off of the Hunters as they turtled down behind their shields, each moving to cover the other. Barrages of heavy caliber rounds impacted their armor, joined by anti-armor jackhammers. The Behemoths were not stupid, however, and let out barrages of suppression fire, leaving glassy craters as the Spartans and normal soldiers crawled among the wreckage. Another mortar came in, exploding right on top of the monsters. They grunted and staggered, but did not relent. The Covenant forces were rallying around the beasts, using them to bolster their morale. It was imperative that they fall.

Another fuel rod blast shot through one of the open walls. It detonated with earth shaking force, and the ambient heat washed over the group. Private Kamiara was engulfed in green fire along with a half dozen others. A choked scream, forever silenced, was his only epitaph. When the flash cleared, nothing was left of where he and his fellows had been except for a glassy crater three meters deep and small bits of carbonized skeleton.

There was a surreal horror to it all, Neeshka thought, as a group of flying spelljammers termed 'Banshees' came screaming into the fight. Guided, flaming projectiles rushed up to meet them, swatting some from the sky in a fiery holocaust of burning metal. The wreckages crashed in among the Covenant troops, scattering them. Still more rallied around the large Lek'golo troops. More shots from their assault cannons blasted building and men to bits. Johnson and one of the Spartans of Blue Team were hurled through the air by the impact, and both landed heavily.

The Spartan continued firing, but looking through Johnson's memory, Neeshka saw something that surprised her. The Spartan had his back up against a wall, identified as Blue Three, and she held her rifle in a single hand. She held it that way because her left arm was gone, burned off by the impact of the Hunter's cannon. Blue Three twisted out into the open for a few seconds and fired off a few rounds, before turning back inside.

"Excuse me, Ma'am," Johnson began.

"I am aware of the situation," Blue Three responded. If she was in pain, no traces of it made their way to her voice.

Johnson shook his head, before priming a grenade and hurling it out into the open. It detonated at the feet of the Hunters, but did little more than annoy them. A few Sangheili swarmed around them, using them as mobile cover, but many were cut down by the Human's strange 'rail gun' weapon. A Banshee strafed by, blue and green fire streaking out away from it. The Master Chief raised his weapon, riddling the flying machine with pockmarks. It was hard of her to make sense of everything that was going on, all the chatter, all the noise, how did these soldiers remain sane?

"Jackhammer's empty, reloading," a female voice said, Green Four.

"New pack for the fifty, going loud," a male this time, identified as Green Two.

More mortars rained down, more bodies turned to chunks of flesh. A barrage of fire from the two heavy machine guns finally brought the remaining Banshee down, and then everything in the area focused on the hunters. Explosive rounds, assault rifles, battle rifles, rockets, gauss cannons, machineguns. Their armor dented and slowly began to glow before the raging heat of explosive rounds. Slowly, ever so slowly, they started to stagger, and leave gaps in their armor. At last, a hole opened up large enough for the rail gun to slip through. In quick order, the beasts groaned and slumped to the ground, their little eels splattering all over the place, flopping about and squirming to try and get back together and reconstitute themselves.

"Frag those things!" the Master Chief shouted as a plasma bolt struck him in the shoulder. His green armor glowed white for a moment, and Neeshka found herself surprised that there was no force field to stop it. Why was that?

A trio of fragmentation grenades bounced out into the open, where they detonated moments later, splattering orange goop and mulch everywhere. Corporal Fitzgerald remained exposed for a second too long, and a Sangheili shot him with a three round burst, center mass. In an instant, the man's armor had been blasted away to nothing, and in seeming slow motion, the energy rounds tore into him, vaporized the water and blood of his body, and his entire upper half exploded violently. He never even had a chance to scream before a set of legs and part of a waist slumped to the ground, blackened blood oozing from it.

Heavier pulses were streaking in, along with a few glowing orbs. Blue Team had less than half its non Spartan combat population alive at the moment, and from the sounds of things, Green Team's weren't fairing any better.

More roars from the mortar, targeting some kind of fixed gun installations, and wrecking them.

"Moving to better position," the Master Chief said, "stay low. Blue Four, take out those gunners!"

The response he got was a series of double boom shockwaves as Linda did her deadly work.

"Boss, we got a problem," Red Team said over the comm line. "Covie bastards must have gotten a warning off, there's a Scarab inbound towards your position. ETA is six minutes."

"Six minutes till contact, confirmed," the Master Chief responded. "What's its route?"

"It's going to move right by us. Probably figured out where the mortar rounds are coming from and wants us gone. We'll attempt to board and take it out. Fleetcomm's got nothing for us until we take out that gun."

"Do it," the Spartan said, leaning back out with his M6J leveled.

The cameras never properly recorded Spartan Time, and all that the onlookers saw was a long segment of blurred movement, interspaced by loud explosions and blossoms of alien blood and meat.

"Shit, as if things are not bad enough, now we got a Scarab on our tails," Toliver groaned while blind-firing his assault rifle over a concrete and titanium barricade.

"Red Team has the Scarab situation under control, focus on your objective," the Master Chief responded while he reloaded his carbine.

"Yeah, and I'm Lord Hood!" someone shouted.

The Master Chief opted not to respond, but instead looked out upon the shattered square. The Elites and Hunters were dead, at least the ones outside, but the surviving Jackals were locking their shields together and firing through the gaps for all they were worth. He knew the civilians inside didn't have much longer to live. If the Covenant believed themselves in danger of losing this area, they wouldn't let them survive.

"Blue Five, with me." He looked over and picked an M6C from a dead marine, and double checked the ammo supply. One hundred rounds, good enough. Between these two weapons, and the BR-55 on his back, he should have sufficient firepower to deal with most of what he could run into inside of the structure. "Red Team, I want that formation dead yesterday."

"Mortars in route," the response came. "Packing up, preparing for the Scarab."

"Blue Leader, Blue Five, moving out, covering fire!" the Master Chief shouted.

Gunfire erupted from every surviving soldier, forcing the Jackals down behind their shields as the Master Chief and Blue Five, James, leapt up and began to rush towards the open door of the building. They were halfway across the courtyard when a pair of mortars landed among the Jackal formation. As he watched the recordings of his memories, the Master Chief was vaguely aware of someone being sick behind him.

He and James were through the door in an instant, which opened up into a square room about fifteen meters wide. He had a split second to take stock of enemy forces: A white armored Sangheili commander, some Grunts, a few Jackals, and a couple of Drones. He raised both of his weapons and fired as he leapt through the air. The M6J's explosive rounds tore into the Commander's shields, while the pistol's non explosive bullets went sailing into the startled Jackals' skulls. James came through right behind him, his BR-55 blowing the heads of the Drones clean off and sending the Grunts into a panic. They died screaming just as an Elite Major came through a door to the back. The red armored warrior roared, and raised a plasma rifle.

The M6J clicked empty as the Master Chief landed behind some computer consoles that the Covenant had set up. He furiously reloaded his carbine, just in time to hear the sound of an igniting energy sword. He swore, reached for a grenade, and primed it. It landed on the ground, and the Elites gave cries of surprise. The resulting explosion shook the room, but he knew they weren't dead, not yet. James leaned out and targeted the Major, switching his BR-55 to full auto and hosing the monstrous warrior with a hail of hypersonic uranium.

The Master Chief saw a read blob moving towards him on his motion sensor, and swore. He dove out of the way as the plasma blade cleaved the cover he was behind in half. The Sangheili roared and lunged. Cobra quick, the Spartan twisted out of the way, and unleashed his carbine on his opponent. The Elite raised a plasma rifle with its left hand, and fired twice. The supersonic plasma bolts punched into his chest, but the Mjolnir armor held up.

Luck of the battlefield came a moment later, as a third round struck the carbine he carried and turned it into a useless hunk of slag. The Master Chief threw the ruined weapon at his foe, catching it off guard, before tackling it to the ground. The plasma sword sliced a reinforced concrete pillar clean in half as he gripped the Elite's wrist and smashed it against the floor. Its shields flickered and died, and then a second strike forced the blade from its hand, where it skidded across the floor, tearing gouges of molten stone and metal out of it.

He slammed the plasma rifle into the ground as well, discharging it and melting a part of the wall away, revealing a crisscrossing segment of metal that now glowed red with heat. The Spartan then headbutted the Elite as he heard James unleash his pistol against the Major. He headbutted the Elite again, and then a third time, before the thing roared and pivoted forward, putting itself on top of the Human. The Master Chief brought his knee up and slammed it into the alien's groin. Its grip upon him weakened just enough for him to shift about, and he reached up and grabbed the Sangheili around its head, thinking to twist it and break its neck. The alien commander grunted, and pivoted the other way while trying to bring up its plasma rifle. The Spartan responded by kicking it in the wrist, sending the rifle flying from its hand as he tore its helmet from its head.

An opportunity presented itself, and John didn't hesitate. He grabbed the Elite by its mandibles, thrust his thumb forward, and pivoted it. The Elite howled as its left eye was popped from the socket and burst like a ripe fruit. John shifted again, got a hold on it, and slammed it into the wall. Its head went right into the still glowing metal, and the alien screamed horribly as it was burned. It kicked out, but the cyborg's incredible reflexes enabled him to get out of the way. As it rolled back up, he got a good glimpse of its head, now branded with the pattern of the metal.

Back in the present, John cocked his head to one side. Could it be?

Off to the side, James smashed his fist into the Major. Bones smashed as its neck shattered under the force of the blow. However, before they could finish off the commander, a barrage of plasma fire from a group of surprisingly courageous Grunts drove them behind cover.

"Retrieve the Commander!" one of them shouted. "Then pull back to the dropships!"

The Master Chief swore mentally, but there was nothing that they could do. There was enough plasma flying over their heads that he felt like he could try a hand at swimming through it. After a few seconds it died off, and he carefully peeked up from behind his cover. The room was a mess, filled with smoke and blobs of liquefied concrete. He unslung his battle rifle and moved forward.

To his surprise, the civilians that had been inside were still alive. There were about thirty of them, people of all ages and ethnic groups. The Spartan was confused. The Covenant didn't act like this normally, and a sense of dread filled him. The Grunt leader had mentioned dropships. Maybe they were retreating? Unlikely. That left one more possibility.

"Red Team, status?" he asked.

A viewing module appeared, and behind him, he heard the Natives gasp as they got a view of what a Scarab was right as Red Team leapt from the shattered building they occupied. The Spartans descended among a heap of corpses, Covenant slaughtered as they'd tried to come up and personally dispatch the cyborg fireteam.

"Pushing down into the Scarab's interior. Will keep you updated."

"Roger. Blue Team, Green Team, status on the gun?" the Master Chief asked.

"Setting Demo charges now. Should be ready to make fireworks as soon as we're clear of the area." Green Leader replied. "Civilian Status?"

"Thirty, all alive and breathing. Picking them up and calling for a dropship," John said, as the civilians slowly rose up and walked towards him. Then he opened up the command channel. "Fleetcomm, this is Avenging Angel, primary objective complete, thirty additional secondary objectives secured. Requesting pickup for secondary and new orders."

"Much regret, unable," it was the voice of Admiral Cole. "Covenant troops are pulling back and skittering up into orbit. Long range FTL sensors have detected inbound Covenant task forces. Read about sixty ships. We don't have the firepower to throw back that kind of an assault. I'm ordering the evacuation and withdrawal of all of the ships I've got left."

"Sir, the Fortress, the—" the Master Chief began.

"I'm sorry, son, but there's nothing more we can do. Get those people out of there. We'll have Pelicans inbound to recover your teams and we've already picked up the wounded troops at your insertion point."

"Admiral, detecting energy buildup along the Covenant ships. Enemy formation rearranging itself!" a new voice interjected. "Oh my God…"

"Get those men out of there, double time!" Admiral Cole roared. "Master Chief, get everyone out into the open, now! Covenant forces are assuming glassing formation!"

In a single, horrific moment, everything fell into place. The hasty Covenant withdrawal, why they left the civilians alive… they were finishing up at Azure Twelve. Whatever they had wanted at this planet, they now had. All that was left was to mop up and move on.

"Move! Move! Go!" he shouted to the civilians, picking up the small children to try and get them out into the open faster. "All Teams, prepare for immediate evacuation, repeat, we are pulling out!"

"What the hell's going on?" Johnson asked as the group bolted outside.

"Covenant are initiating glassing protocol, Admiral Cole has ordered immediate evacuation of all unsnagged personnel and civilians."

"What?" Johnson staggered backwards. Neeshka saw his dark face turn ashen. "No! No!"

"Pelicans are already inbound," the Master Chief said. "I'm sorry, Sergeant. There's nothing more that can be done."

"Sorry?" Johnson's eyes were shimmering. "Goddamnit, I've still got family down here!"

Whatever Johnson had been about to say was cut off by a roar and a blinding flash of light. Overhead, the sky seemed to burn and the temperature gauges spike to temperatures usually associated with an oven set to broil. A Covenant pulse laser, fired at something over the horizon. There was a second blinding flash, and in the distance, a blue hot fireball began to form. The Spartan stared at it, the sensors on his suit trying to calculate distance and speed of expansion. They had barely three minutes until their position was engulfed. A countdown timer appeared.

"Avenging Angel, this is Storm-Hammer, we see you, moving in."

The Spartan looked up to see a quarter of Pelicans rushing down towards them. The birds slipped in between the buildings and the massive Covenant artillery piece and pivoted around, bay doors open.

"Civilians first, army and marines second!" he barked. "Red Team, status?"

"Scarab secured, Pelican in visual range. We're bugging out." Red Leader responded.

"Good," the Master Chief said. In the distance, he could see Phantoms streaking away from the ground. They were out of sight in seconds, leaving the atmosphere and the soon to be ravaged Azure Twelve behind.

He looked at his timer. Two minutes, thirty seconds left before the fireball swamped them, and far less time until the exposed civilians were roasted into cinders. The temperature was already climbing to near lethal levels. The civilians and the ordinary soldiers needed to be gone, now.

"Civvies onboard and secured. Troops filing up now." Green Leader spoke up.

"Double time it, Spartan, we're cutting this way too close," John said.

As Johnson and Toliver hustled onboard the Pelican, Blue Team joined them, backpedaling with weapons trained on the surrounding area, just in case some particularly suicidal Covenant soldier was waiting to take a potshot at them.

None revealed themselves, and the bay door slammed shut. The Spartans scrambled up and strapped into the acceleration chairs. As soon as they were done, the pilots gunned the throttle. The Pelicans shot up at a near ninety degree angle, rushing towards deep space as fast as its engines could propel it. Within seconds, they'd left the planet behind. The Master Chief looked towards the small porthole in the rear of the ship. Gasps from the natives echoed in the present. They could see the Covenant ships firing pulse lasers and plasma torpedoes towards the planet. Before long, the seas began to boil and vaporize, the polar caps to melt, and the atmosphere itself began to ignite and catch flame. Within an hour, Azure Twelve would be a lifeless ball of ash and shining glass.

Johnson's view was much the same, except his was less stable. His breathing was deep, heavy, like someone who was stuck halfway between going into a berserking rampage and breaking down entirely. Toliver was swearing in the background, and many of the civilians were holding themselves or others close.

"Cut feed," Johnson said.

Everyone looked at the visibly shaking ODST, memories nearly three decades old dragged back, squirming and writhing into the sunlight. He turned and walked out of the room, heading towards one of the Dawn's onboard barracks.

"That… that is how wars are fought where you come from?" Drizzt asked, his voice quivering and faint.

"That was merely a battle… not the war. The war would drag on for almost thirty more years." Cortana's voice came over the speakers of the room, and she appeared in the viewing tank where the Master Chief's video index had been. "What you saw there happened hundreds of times as the Covenant waged their systematic genocide against us. Rough causality estimates accounting for population fluctuation from the war as well as those born during the conflict indicate that only about one person in a hundred thousand survived."

Neeshka rocked backwards as if she'd been visibly struck. One by one, the members of the Lord's Alliance looked at each other.

"After what they've done to you, how can your people trust them—the Sangheili—I mean?" Lord Nasher said, shaking his head.

"Because, they were also betrayed," Cortana said. "Their leaders tried to eradicate them as the war neared its end. Once that occurred and they learned the truth behind the war, they came to our aid, saved us from the rest of the Covenant. We've been working together sense then, though things have at times been tense. Wars are not easily forgotten."

Neeshka Barely heard any of it. She staggered out of the room, and away from the door. She felt like she was going to be sick. Her mind tried in vain to digest the new information that it had been bombarded with. Orna and his brothers, so honorable, so polite, noble even… they were really murderers on a scale that would make the most vicious of Balors go purple in envious rage. Destroyers of worlds, butchers of innocent men women and children, unarmed, helpless in the face of their weaponry. She tried to reconcile the two images, the two sides. The alien soldiers that had treated her so well, looked past her infernal blood, the ones that had done so much to keep her hometown safe, to drive back the Drow. She couldn't understand it.

And then another thought crept in: Helm. Or Didact, or whoever the hell he really was. He had been a human too, his people had _saved_ the Sangheili from the ravenous Flood, and ensured their survival. And they had repaid their saviors with a dagger to the back.

Neeshka was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she didn't realize where she was going, and the only warning that she got was when she stumbled over something and went crashing to the ground. She heard a grunt of pain, and looked over to see Gazap picking himself up off the floor.

"My apologies, lady Neeshka," he said, with a bow, something that looked almost comical with his short stature. He extended a hand to help her. "I've been a bit distracted lately."

Neeshka recoiled from the outstretched hand, and Gazap twisted his head to the side. "Something wrong?"

Neeshka said nothing, as Gazap continued to stare at her.

"How could you?" she asked at long last. "How could you just kill them all, just like that?"

"I'm sorry?" he asked, and then his eyes widened in understanding. "Oh… I see. Found out about the war, did you?"

The Tiefling nodded her head.

"Had to happen sometime. I can make no apologies great enough to make up for what we did," he said, extending his hand again, and helping her up. "All I can tell you is the tale of my people, and of our Covenant, and let you judge for yourself as to whether we are 'men,' duped into a war built on lies, deceit, and the workings of power hungry old fools, or monsters worthy of your fear." He looked up at her, his mottled skin shifting as he furrowed his brow. "Will you hear our story?"

"…Yes…" Neeshka trailed off.

"I'll start at the beginning…"

* * *

Back in the control room, the Master Chief had Cortana upload another visual segment from both his memory and Johnson's.

"You've seen the Covenant… but there was another threat we faced, later in the war. A power so terrifying that even the Covenant feared it."

Images flashed to life, showing Johnson upon the Alpha Halo, standing right outside a large, gaping structure.

"Wait here for the Captain and his squad, then get your ass inside," he said, before tromping forward with a group of Marines at his back.

* * *

&

* * *

Well, there it is, at long last. I hope that you guys enjoyed the chapter, for all its flaws, or at the very least, do not wish to string me up from an oak tree and proceed to use me for a piñata (if you do, please notify me so that I may seek to acquire my riot gear, it makes the bat impacts less painful). Thank you again for your patience and advice, and once again, all feedback is appreciated, especially constructive criticism. Flames are also accepted, as they help keep my heating bill down.

I hope to see you again soon, until then, stay safe.

Red Mage 04


	24. Chapter 23: Valde quod Insciens Proditio

Hello again everyone. Sorry about the delays, as per usual. Law school examinations were very rough this year, and much time was necessary to prepare for them. Apparently somebody thought it would be an absolutely wonderful idea for me to have first, two exams and a major exam equivalent paper due in a 48 hour period, and later two law examinations on the same day, one of which was my most difficult exam (Administrative law, which is basically "trying to make sense of the choked fetid bureaucracy 101") in which the professor, instead of throwing fact patterns and legal scenarios at us as per usual, instead threw trivia related to us. This has been followed by anxiously waiting for any of my grades to be posted, and trying to secure a summer internship and await classes. To paraphrase Doctor Insano:

"I feel like a puppy that's just been violated by a bulldozer…"

At any rate, here's chapter twenty three, may it hopefully not be too godawful. And I thank you for continuing to put up with my ungodly delays.

* * *

**Valde quod Insciens Proditio: The Great and Unknowing Betrayal**

**

* * *

**

Gazap turned and started to walk down the hallway of the Dawn, sighing softly, before looking up at Neeshka.

"The first thing that you must understand about us, Lady Neeshka, is that the Covenant operate on a caste system, a tier based society in which everyone has a place, usually based on the order in which we became part of the Covenant," the Unggoy said. "My brothers and I, we were the last, and thus, the lowest. Our purpose is to serve as laborers, workers, and the bulk of the military. It is for this reason that the UNSC and termed us 'Grunts.' To this end, we are well suited," he extended a four-fingered hand. "Much like your own variant of us, we are small, but strong, we are hardy, and reasonably intelligent. We also have a high rate of reproduction, which serves us well in our role as cannon fodder…"

"Wait, what?" Neeshka asked, cocking her head to one side.

"Sorry, military slang," Gazap said, smiling behind his rebreather mask. "What I mean is that we have the highest causalities of any troops in the Covenant, and are largely considered expendable by our commanding officers."

"No, no, what did you mean by 'our own variant?'" The Tiefling arched her eyebrows.

"The short ones, the Dwarves. They appear to be your heavy labor force, from what I've seen… granted, they have a great deal more freedom and rights than we do," his voice became faraway, wistful.

"Ummm, they're not a heavy labor force. They're separate from us, their own people." Neeshka said, scratching the back of her head. It seemed the Unggoy still had a lot to learn about Faerun.

"Truly? Most fascinating. I'll have to have a talk with one of them later." He shook his head. "To get back on the topic at hand, our life is not an easy one. It is one of toil, sweat, and blood. Those of us drafted into the military usually do not last very long. Whether we are quelling uprisings, squashing heretics, or exploring new worlds, most of us don't last past a couple of tours of duty. There are, however, exceptions."

"Like yourself?" The Tiefling nodded towards the Unggoy.

"Correct," Gazap said with a nod. "I have served in the Covenant and Neo Covenant military for the better part of three decades. By the standards of my kind, I am ancient, and should have retired long ago."

"And you haven't, why?"

"Because, my lady, Commander Tarkimee treats us well. Far better than most. We're elite units, special operations, above and beyond the normal troopers." He gestured to the white color of his armor. "I hold the highest rank an Unggoy can obtain within his lifetime, and the Commander has not forgotten that. I suppose I don't want to head into the unknown of civilian life, because I'm treated well in my current job."

"And the war?"

"Ah, the war," His eyes closed for a moment, and he took a deep breath. "Next, you must understand that after a lifetime of work, and the fear of death, that one hopes for a reward, no?" He got a nod from her. "In this, the Prophet's delivered. They gave us wondrous technology, far and wide above what we had. New advances in medicine, farming, industry. They told us of a wondrous truth they and the Sangheili discovered, mysterious devices, seeded throughout the galaxy by an ancient race known as the Forerunners." Gazap's eyes started to mist up. "These would take all who were worthy, living and dead, upon a Great Journey, where they would be transformed, and find salvation from the hell of our lives."

"Interesting approach," Neeshka muttered.

"Indeed," Gazap nodded. Then he sighed again and shook his head. "About thirty five years ago, we happened across a new race, one that called itself Humanity. At first, we expected that the war against them would be brief, whereupon they would be brought into the Covenant, as we had. But that was not to be. The Prophets decreed that they were heretics, desecraters of the holy artifacts and sanctuaries of the Forerunners." He paused, cocking his head to the side. "It would be somewhat like the highest, most sacred shrine of the gods you worship being invaded by a group of barbarians, who utterly destroyed the place and carted off the most holy relics of your faith to be used for reasons unknown. You can imagine, milady, where this is probably headed…"

"Yeah, I can," The Tiefling's tail began to lash back and forth in agitation.

"For a while, things went as expected, mostly. The Humans were no match for our military might, in space or on the ground. They, were, however, unique in one way that I found interesting. They never surrendered to their despair. Never lost their courage. The more we attacked, the closer we got to the heart of their fledgling empire, the harder they struggled, the more ferocious their tactics became." Gazap's breathing was becoming heavier, and his hands started to tremble. "And then… and then they appeared."

"Who?"

"In our tongue, they were called the Rakash Dezan," the Unggoy's voice had become deathly quiet, and Neeshka swore she could smell the fear roll off the small alien. "I'm still not fully familiar with your language, but the closest translation that I can think of would be 'Those moving as Death's shadow.'"

"The Spartans?" she cocked her head to one side. She'd seen the Master Chief in action, enough to know that he and his brothers and sisters were warriors the likes of which this world had never seen, but this was from one of Humanity's enemies. The situation seemed a little surreal.

"Yes… they appeared, almost out of nowhere, it seemed. No one knew where they came from, but tales began to spread among the ranks, tales of Human warriors that moved far too fast and were strong enough to tear a Sangheili Zealot limb from limb." The small alien's whole body seemed to quiver now. "Some said they were machines, implacable and unfeeling, others, that they were specially trained Humans. As our confrontations with them grew in number, others began to claim that they were an unnatural blight, a supernatural curse that the Gods themselves had unleashed upon us, for some sin that we had committed."

Neeshka raised an eyebrow, and Gazap nodded his head feverishly. "Hard as it may be for you to understand, you must look at it through our eyes. Humans were ferocious combatants on their own, almost feral in their determination to survive and triumph over us. They were dangerous enough, but could be overcome through our superior technology and weaponry. These… demons, these Spartans, battled us hundreds of times, thousands. And no matter what we brought against them, we always lost. No, we were slaughtered." He stopped, and leaned against the wall, before taking a few deep breaths, and swallowing deeply.

"One of my younger brothers, Yarath, encountered the Spartans on a world the Humans called Jericho Seven." Gazap's voice was quiet, and his eyes were closed. The echoing of his rebreather filled the corridor as he took deep, gulps of methane. "Yarath was part of an entire regiment, one thousand strong. They had plasma cannons, armor support, Banshees, everything they should have." He looked up at her, and his tiny, blue eyes pierced her crimson ones. "There were four Spartans. Just four, and they had only what they'd been able to carry into battle with them."

"What happened?" Neeshka said, kneeling down next the small alien, before slumping down to sit against the wall as well.

"Yarath died. His whole regiment was slaughtered to the last suckling pup. Nothing survived, _nothing_. Of the Spartans, from recovered combat footage from the fallen Sangheili commanders, we were able to deduce that none of them had so much as been wounded." He shook his head again. "They were legends among the Covenant, beings of awe and terror, nightmares made flesh. To see them was to die… in all but the rarest of cases."

"That's the voice of experience, isn't it?" the Tiefling said.

"Among my people, I am a statistical anomaly, Neeshka. For I have seen the Spartans, faced them, not once, not twice, but three times, and somehow managed to live to tell about it." He snorted derisively. "The Prophets did their best to quell the rumors of these beings, and label the reports of them as exaggerations, the results of 'combat induced hysteria.' I knew better. I had seen better. I had seen these Spartans run faster than any creature should have. I had seen them punch through stone walls and soldiers empty entire power packs at them and hit nothing but air. I watched them lose whole limbs, and not even so much as scream. But… even they were not enough. Slowly, inexorably, we began to push towards their home. We glassed their worlds, destroyed their fleets, and laid waste to their armies. And the Humans never gave up… Then came our greatest discovery. As the Humans fled what we thought was their homeworld, Fleetmaster Orna Fulsamee, whom I suspect you have become acquainted with, pursued a Human craft called _The Pillar of Autumn._ The chase led them to Halo, one of the sacred rings the Forerunners had left behind."

"Wait a minute," Neeshka gave him a confused look, "are you saying…"

"Indeed, the true purposes of the Rings had been lost to time and history. We knew so little about the Forerunners, not even their true appearance. Only what there was in the legends of the Sangheili and San 'Shyuum lore. That they were a race of gods that had descended from on high to defeat a nameless evil." Gazap shuddered again. "There, on that ring, Fulsamee and his fellows would find that evil."

"The Flood," Neeshka whispered. A chill roamed over her body as she remembered the events of the holoemitter, the Master Chief's memories.

* * *

"I mean, it's weird, right… looks like something scrambled the insides."

Private First Class Mathew Besenti reached out and nudged the corpse in front of him with his armored boot, as if he half expected the Sangheili wasn't dead. The corpse was a mess, blue-purple blood dried along a dozen holes, the creature's neck twisted at an angel nature never intended for it to move to, and with its insides scrambled as the Marine had so aptly described.

"What do we have, Sergeant?"

Johnson's viewing module twisted to observe a new man and a group of heavily armed marines moving into the room. He wore standard marine armor, and carried an M6D with an elongated barrel and extended clip at his side. Identification indexes sprang to life as Johnson nodded—the closest thing to a salute allow in the field of battle—identifying him as a one Jacob Keyes, while an insignia in the shape of a silver eagle appeared next to him, marking him as a navy captain.

"Master Chief, does this man possess—" Lord Nasher began.

"Captain Jacob Keyes is the father of Commander Keyes," the Spartan answered.

"Covenant fireteams, Sir," Johnson remarked, looking back across the room, where bodies lay among pools of blood. "Badass special ops units, all K.I.A." the words "Killed In Action" scrawled across the bottom of the holotank as Cortana provided definitions for the military acronyms of the UNSC.

"Real pretty… friends of yours?" Keyes said as he drew up and eyed Besenti.

"No sir, we just met," the Marine responded. He looked slightly ashen.

Keyes stared around at the rest of the room. "What's all the stuff on the walls, plasma scoring?"

Johnson looked over to what the captain was gesturing at. His ODST armor identified a number of components and compositional probabilities, which were in line with plasma scoring. Two things, of course, stood out. The first being how little damage there was to the walls, the second being the lack of Human retaliation. No brass casings, no fragments of metal or slugs on the ground. Nothing. What then, had these troops been shooting at? What had killed them?

"Maybe there was an accident, you know, friendly fire, or something," Private Mendoza ventured. It was clear from his own tone of voice, however, that the marine didn't believe it.

"We'll find out soon enough…" Johnson said, raising his assault rifle. He motioned for Mendoza to take point, and they progressed forward.

Bodies and blood filled every corridor. Something had happened here. Something very bad.

From where he stood, Drizzt felt a growing sense of terror and a palpable sense of apprehension. It brought back memories of the time when he had faced his father, raised as an enslaved Zin Carla to do his mother's bidding, and all the slaughter that had been wreaked as he'd passed through the Underdark. He was aware of Dove Falconhand suddenly stepping closer to him. She was less familiar with this technology that the visitors used, these memories that were real yet not.

Within the tank the corpses piled up, dead by the scores, possibly the hundreds. Every one of them died with a look of terror on their faces, visible despite their alien features. At last, the Humans reached a door that was locked down. Besenti fumbled for a strange device, and then placed it upon the center of the door. He stared at the small readout.

"Whoa… triple encrypted," he whispered. "Whatever is behind this door, the Covenant went to a _lot_ of trouble to lock it down."

"Just open it, son," Keyes said.

Besenti's hands flew over the device and after a few seconds, the lights around the door turned green, and they opened up. Weapons snapped up and everything from pistols to shotguns to grenades were readied.

The door opened to reveal nothing. Nothing but another room. Besenti motioned ahead, and his friends moved forward, Jenkins going right, Mendoza left. Johnson joined them a moment later. The room was secured.

Drizzt felt the terror nearly overwhelming him, a sixth sense in the back of his mind that all was not as it seemed. Something tickled in his soul, like a dark hunger that had suddenly awoken.

"I have a bad feeling about this…" Jenkins muttered.

"You always have a bad feeling about everything," Johnson said, scanning every corner of the room.

As if to mock the Sergeant Major, a strange hissing, slithering noise echoed through the air. Weapons snapped about, and eyes went to motion sensors. Nothing. Then static crackled over the radio.

"Sarge! Hard Contact! Hard Contact!" It was the members of the second squad, the one that had been left back at the entrance. "Shit! Shit! Shit! James, Eight O'clock! Eight O'clock!"

"What's going on, Soldier?" Keyes barked.

"Contacts, lots of contacts!" the man responded. The panic in his voice seemed almost infectious, and the rest of the Marines started to look uneasy. "…They're… They're not Covenant… oh God…" Whatever he had been about to say was cut off by a horrific scream, and then total, absolute silence.

"Corporal? Corporal!" Johnson shouted into his mike. "Mendoza, get your ass back up to second squad's position and find out what the hell is going on!"

"But—"

"I don't have time for your lip, Soldier. I gave you an order, now do it." Johnson cut him off.

The squirming noise returned, louder, more insistent this time. Johnson's motion sensor suddenly came to life in a solid blob of red. Shouting broke out among the Marines, and they spread out a few meters, covering every single approach. A loud booming echoed through the room, and one of the doors started to buckle and warp. It burst open, and out poured… something.

Drizzt nearly recoiled out of instinct. The creatures were about the size of a Sprite, and skittered about upon a number of small tentacles. Their mottled green and brown skin shimmered in the faint light of the room, and they raised more feelers, each one tipped with a wicked looking crimson barb.

"What the…" Mendoza said, slowly backing away from the things, his assault rifle trained upon the largest group.

A scream split the air moments later, and Johnson turned to find another marine down on the ground, his armor ripped open as one of the things landed on him. The marine went down, struggling and trying to get the thing off of him.

"Get it off! Get it off me!" he shouted, choking as his chest was sliced open and the thing looked as if it was trying to burrow into him.

"Hold still, hold still!" Besenti said, frantically ripping the thing off of his fellow. It was too late, though, the marine was dead.

"Let 'em have it!" Johnson barked, and his assault rifle blazed into the heart of the group of creatures. Bullets would tear into them, causing them to explode and release a cloud of spore like vapor, sometimes even starting a chain reaction, where others in close proximity would also explode. The others followed suit, those who weren't in a panic, at least. "Goddammit, Jenkins, fire your weapon!" Johnson shifted position as another door broke down and hundreds of the squiggling little things swarmed towards the fireteams.

"Sergeant, we're surrounded." It was a Keyes, a bastion of calm in this new storm.

"There's too many of them!" Mendoza shouted.

"Jenkins, clear a path behind us, Besenti, Mendoza, I want you to lay down suppression fire," Johnson began, before twisting to look at Jenkins. The young man was livid, nearly on the verge of a panic. "Jenkins, behind you!"

Something loomed in the darkness, an enormous shadow against the corridor. Jenkins started to turn, but one of the smaller creatures leapt onto his back, and bore him to the ground. Johnson's rifle clicked empty, and he reached for his side arm. The gun kicked against his palm as he fired at everything he could. It wasn't enough. There were too many, they swarmed over the marines, burying them under a pile of bodies. A bolt of blue plasma flew out of the darkness, striking the Sergeant Major directly in the chest. The bolt hit him like a superheated sledgehammer, blasting him backwards and into a pile of the creatures. Many were crushed under the Human's weight, but not enough to buy him time to get back up. They swarmed over him, burying him alive. Warnings flashed on the Sergeant Major's HUD, telling him of breaches to his armor, and he gave a grunt of pain.

Just as quickly as it began, it stopped, and the creatures swarmed away from him. Johnson panted, shaking his head at what had happened. The creatures had swarmed off, leaving him alone except for the bodies of a few of his fellow marines. The ODST was panting, staring down at him self, as if he was unable to believe that he was still alive.

"Besenti? Mendoza? Captain?" he called out. Nothing answered. Then he heard a squirming noise, and he twisted to look behind him. Besenti was there, or rather, what had once been Besenti.

His skin was turning into the same brown and greenish material that the small aliens had been made out of, and his neck hung at a very odd angle. His eyes here closed, and he stumbled forward in an unsteady gait. Drizzt was reminded of a zombie.

"Besenti?" Johnson said, taking a step back away from the man.

Besenti ignored him, and instead seemed to be focusing on walking about and moving. Those movements were becoming more and more fluid and graceful. Johnson seemed to be unnerved, and noticed that the other 'dead' Marines were starting to move as well. Johnson dove for his assault rifle, and quickly loaded a fresh magazine. At the same time he did, Besenti's left arm bulged, and with a sickening crack, a trio of long, wavering tentacles burst out of it. The arm shot through the air, the tentacles whipping out and lashing around an assault rifle, before flinging it back at the Marine. The right hand clutched around it, and raised it with a single hand as if the weapon was as light as a feather.

Johnson was faster though, and took no chances. He fired a double tap, one into Besenti's guts, another that went straight into his neck. The first one caused the Marine to stagger, the second effectively decapitated him.

Besenti responded with a barrage of gunfire that thudded into Johnson's ODST armor, either unaware or uncaring of the fact that his head was slumped over his back, connected to his shoulders only by a few dangling tendons. The Helljumper threw himself over a rise in the middle of the room, and a moment later, he threw grenade over the top of the rise. A half second later it landed at the feet of the Marine. It exploded, and Johnson peeked back up. Where Besenti had been was nothing but a pile of greenish red blood and bits of flesh. The others were stirring, though, and unlike Besenti had been at first, they weren't clumsy in their movements. They immediately went for their weapons. Johnson hurled another grenade, and wiped half the group out. Then he bolted for the doorway. More depleted uranium rounds impacted against his armor as he streaked by, and he fired back.

Arms were shredded, legs torn off, heads burst open like melons. None of it bothered the beasts. They rushed, crawled, and stormed after him. What followed was a three-minute long, running gun battle where the sergeant was forced to take cover, fire back at his pursuers, as the altered marines frantically pursued him. All the while they were eerily silent. There was no moaning, no growling, no roaring. They were quiet, but moved with alien grace and tactics that mirrored what they had been capable of in 'life.' Even from his limited understanding of the Humans and how they fought, Drizzt was able to recognize flanking maneuvers, suppression fire, grenades being used to flush the ODST out of hiding. It was horrifically surreal.

Again, he was reminded of his father. Zin Carla. That's what these creatures reminded him of. Strong and durable as the most hardy of undead, but retaining their minds and knowledge in life. His father's animated corpse had showed him all too well what such a combination could result in, and now here was something like it, only each one of the little creatures had the potential to unleash something like this. Worse, they were armed with UNSC weaponry. A cold sweat broke out over the ranger's forehead. How many of those things had there been? How many hundreds? Something like that could have swarmed nearly any town or city along the Sword Coast. There would be no stopping them. Gods have mercy, what if those things could reproduce?

In the holotank, Johnson's assault rifle clicked empty. His hands were a blur as he released the empty mag, and tried to load a new one. Fast as he was, though, he was not fast enough. One of the creatures jumped in and lashed out with its tentacled arm. Johnson barely had time to get his left arm up in a futile attempt to block the strike. There was a loud 'thwack' that echoed through the room, and Johnson's viewing module was a blur of dizzying motions as he was catapulted end over end through the air. Less than a second later he smashed into a metal wall, and fell to the floor in a heap. The creature followed him, leaping across the thirty-meter wide room in a fluid motion that reminded the Dark Elf of a vampire.

Johnson growled, assumed a kneeling position, and ripped out his M6D. He had time for one shot that caught the creature in the gut as it closed in. The depleted uranium round tore through its armor and exploded, ripping the beast in half and splattering it around the area. Johnson panted softly, and then looked down at the pistol that he carried. He nodded softly, and then continued through the compound.

* * *

"Tymora have mercy," Neeshka whispered.

"Indeed. The Flood was a terror right out of our worst nightmares." Gazap said as they approached one of the hangars of the Dawn, where a methane habitat had been set up. Other Unggoy milled about, chattering softly with each other. They snapped to a salute as their commander walked by them, before following along behind him, listening to his tale.

"The Flood were voracious learners. They learned how to use our weapons, our vehicles… our ships within minutes of taking over the bodies of our warriors." Gazap shuddered again. "Let the Prophets say what they would in regards to the supposed crimes of the Humans for destroying the Forerunner ring, I was glad to be rid of it. Then came the attempted exodus to Earth. We had found the Oracle of the Halo, an entity that referred to itself as 343 Guilty Spark. It was a computer of some sort, radically advanced, more powerful than anything we'd seen before except for the Keyship in High Charity. It directed us to a way to reach the main activation device for the Rings. A fleet was assembled to pave the way for the Prophets arrival. Something went wrong."

"What?" Neeshka asked.

"The Rakash Dezan."

"Spartans?" Neeshka raised an eyebrow. How would they have gotten to where the Covenant were gathering? She'd learned that Human ships were no match for these Covenant 'Cruisers' and 'Super-carriers.'

"Five of them," the Unggoy seemed wistful again. "We thought them still on Reach. If any doubted that they were plagues sent by the Gods before, there was no doubt left after those two events. On Reach, we had destroyed the ship they were traveling to the surface in. They fell for kilometers, smashed against the unforgiving ground and rock and forests. We thought that the end of them… only it wasn't. They rose from the ground, and took the fight to us. Millions of soldiers were upon that world, and still they hid from us, still they fought back. We lost troops, tanks, transports, even a _cruiser_ to their unrelenting fury. Worse… we saw them with new equipment, new armor, new weapons. They were faster, stronger, and more deadly than ever before."

Neeshka thought about what Gazap spoke of. She tried to focus her mind and put herself in the place of an Unggoy. Conscripted, the Gods knew how many miles from her home, shoved into battle against an unknown foe that moved like a blur and could kill you before you even knew it was there. A creature that regarded the loss of an arm or a leg as nothing more than a mild inconvenience. A shudder went up her spine. What fear must have coursed through the bodies of these little beings? She looked around at the other Unggoy that were present and had been listening. Disciplined as she had seen them before, she could see the fear that resounded in them now. Her years in delving through horror filled tombs, staring down dragons, and confronting a half insane guardian construct of a long forgotten empire had taught her will to know when something was afraid.

"And then, as the armada prepared to travel to Earth, they appeared again. They had taken over the _Ascendant Justice_," Neeshka's head perked up a bit. She remembered that name, one of the battle groups the Forerunners had carried that name. "They boarded the _Unyielding Hierophant_—a space station a hundredfold times the size of your city of Neverwinter—and," he took a deep hissing breath, "oh Gods, it was horrific. Nothing could stop them. Nothing." He leaned back against the habitat, shuddering again. "Sangheili, Jiralhanae, Lek'golos, all stood before the Spartans, trying to bar their path and send them to their deaths. Nothing worked. Nothing could hold them back. They shot, blasted, stabbed and bludgeoned their way to the core of the station while their A.I. played havoc with our security systems," he shuddered again. "They destabilized the reactor core, wiped out the whole fleet." Gazap seemed to fold in on himself, his head slumping down into the palms of his hands. Shudders wracked his body, and he sobbed quietly as he slumped to the ground.

"What's wrong?" Neeshka asked. Part of her mind still scolded her for this. She couldn't forget the images of Azure Twelve; drive the screaming and the noise from her mind. But Kale had always told her that there were two sides to every story. And it wasn't like Gazap had had much of a choice in fighting the Humans.

"Barad." Gazap whispered softly. "He was my son. My first born. He died on that station.

Neeshka recoiled as if struck. Gazap had a family? He had children? A hollow seemed to well up in her heart. She'd seen two wars in her lifetime, and enough wailing parents to last the rest of it. She could recall with stark clarity how Rita Starling broke down upon hearing of the death of her son, Lorne. Deagun's face when he thought Kale had died fighting the King of Shadows, Ammon's tortured scream as he learned that his granddaughter was dead by his own hands.

"I'm… sorry," she whispered.

"Don't be." Gazap looked up at her, his eyes misted over slightly. "It was not you who killed him, not you who assigned him to that station, not you who started the war." He wrapped his arms around himself. "I do not blame 117 or the rest of his Spartans either, not for Barad, not for Yarath, not for the half dozen other siblings of mine that they've been responsible for killing." Neeshka looked surprised at this, and he nodded his head softly. "Hard to believe, I know. But the Spartans were soldiers, and it was war. It was to be expected, especially given the nature of the war. They were not fighting for freedom, for any pretty words like liberty, justice, or for the glory of their Gods. No… they were fighting for the most basic right of all… the right to exist. To live. In hindsight, I wonder if that was why the Humans fought with such fury and courage…"

Neeshka didn't know what else to do. She reached out and laid a hand upon the Unggoy's shoulder as he began to sob.

"His tale is not a rare one," one of the other Unggoy said, wearing the green armor that Neeshka had come to understand meant he was an operator for a plasma cannon. "I lost my father and two of my brothers to Helljumpers on Sigma Octanus."

"As did I," spoke another one, clad in black. "I am the last of my family. Everyone else is gone."

So the tales went. There was not a single one of them that had not lost a brother, an uncle, a father, a son. Neeshka could not help but wonder what held these soldiers together. She had seen some of Neverwinter's finest break under these kinds of circumstances. Yet still these Unggoy stood up, gripped their weapons with pride and courage, and charged into battle.

Slowly, she became aware that Gazap's sobs had quieted, and he looked back up at her.

"The Prophet's were not to be deterred. The fleet lost with the _Unyielding Hierophant_ was a large one, but we had scores more where they came from. It was then that Orna returned to us. The Prophets demanded blood for the loss of a sacred ring, and Orna fit the bill nicely. You noticed the scars on his chest, during the ceremony?" he pointed a clawed finger at his sternum, and Neeshka nodded. "That's the Mark of Shame. It is reserved only for the most vile of heretics, those who would be left behind when the Great Journey began, their souls left to drift among the ethers for all eternity."

He took a deep breath and sighed.

"It was shortly after that that the Prophet of Regret decided to head to Earth. He took with him fifteen of our finest ships, and set a course." Gazap began to chuckle bitterly. "Imagine his surprise to emerge from the depths of Slip-Space, expecting to see all the secrets and glories of the Forerunners laid out before him, only to instead find hundreds of UNSC orbital magnetic gun platforms and ships waiting for him. I almost wish I could have been there, just to see the look upon his face."

"I'm guessing that things didn't end too well?" she asked.

"Indeed. It ended with the fleet being ripped to pieces, and the Master Chief following Regret to another Halo. There, the Spartan hunted him down and killed him like a dog." He paused briefly. "After that, things get a little fuzzy for me as far as details go, and Orna would likely be able to help you out more, or Commander Tarkimee. But it was around that time that I started to get suspicious."

"Of what?" Neeshka cocked her head to one side.

"Everything. We were told that the Humans had desecrated the sites of the Forerunner civilization, and believed that we had destroyed their worlds in their entirety." Gazap said. "And yet, when we reached Earth, there were enough human defenses in place to make Reach look like a lightly defended outpost, and the information we obtained indicated that they had been there far, far longer than anywhere else." His voice became quiet. "None of the Forerunner's ancient writings or anything the Prophets had told us indicated that there would be a Human presence on that world. It was something that took us completely by surprise… and then, at the Halos, I learned from the Commander that Guilty Spark and the other Oracles had always referred to the Humans as 'Reclaimers,' and that the Prophets had taken Human prisoners with them to the ring's control chambers. The rings would only respond to the touch of a Human, it seemed."

He paused once more. "And now, here, Orna delivers the final piece of the puzzle, and worse, I discover that the Prophets knew all along that the Humans were the descendants of the Forerunners, ignorant survivors of their war with the Flood." A sniffle cracked through his voice and he started to rock back and forth again. "My brothers, my sons, my family. I had lost so many… but I kept hoping that in the end, that I would be worthy, and that the Great Journey would let me see them once again as we all stood together in paradise." He let out a sudden roar, and slammed his fist against the metal deck. "And it was a lie, _all of it!_ My brothers and children had died for _nothing_! Thirty five years of bloodshed, carnage, death, destruction, broken lives and hopes and it was all because the Prophets feared that if we ever learned what the Humans truly were, that they would lose their hold upon power." Tears made their way down his mottled cheeks, freezing into crystal as they brushed against his icy cold rebreather.

Murmuring broke out among the other Unggoy, as they nodded their heads and stared down at the floor. The Tiefling caught wind of whispered conversations and vows of vengeance once they returned to their homes. What would it be like, to be betrayed like that, suffer on that magnitude?

Neeshka felt her temples start to throb, and put two fingers against her head, hissing slightly.

* * *

_Rejoice… I am salvation…_ Gravemind's voice echoed through the Spartan's mind as the members of the Lord's Alliance recoiled before the images of the writhing, twisting abominations.

More of them came at the cyborg, and he fired his weapons till their magazines and power cells were empty. Still they came, still they fought. He pried weapons from their still twitching hands, aiming for the Infection Forms that he knew to be within the chest of each one of the hapless victims. But it was never enough. More would simply swarm in and take over the body, manipulate the muscles and nerves to get the walking dead to stand once again. The loss of heads and arms did nothing to deter them. And all the while, he knew that they were studying his tactics, his strategy, what he did in which situation.

Gravemind was studying him, trying to find a key flaw or a hole that he could exploit. That disturbed the Master Chief far more than anything else had. He had no idea how to counter such a being. Gravemind was everywhere, in every one of the infection, combat, and carrier forms. He could never exterminate the creature. Even as he watched, there were spores landing upon the walls and buildings of High Charity, sinking into them and spreading like a fester wound or a cancer.

He took shelter as his motion sensor detected a number of hostiles moving behind him. There was something that appeared to be a park, with a number of rocks and stones that formed a hole just small enough for him to crawl into. He examined the stones as he crawled back into them. Sturdy enough to provide at least some cover against Covenant small arms, light enough for him to shove aside when he needed to. Perfect.

It was a group of Sangheili, and there was a certain franticness to their actions he had never observed before. They were falling back in a somewhat orderly manner, firing behind them as they retreated down the path. Blobs of red plasma and spikes of alien metal whizzed past their position, and moments later, a group of Brutes exposed themselves. His eyebrows shot up. He had expected Flood. Why would these two allies be fighting each other in the middle of an invasion of Flood? Their very capital was under attack.

In the end, the Elites's shields proved to be superior to the Brutes's power armor. The Spartan listened intently to what transpired next.

"This betrayal could not have come at a worse time," a red armored major, the apparent leader to the team growled. "Where is the parasite now, and what of the Prophets?" he asked a subordinate, who appeared to be carrying extra communication equipment.

"Truth and Mercy are broadcasting their sermon on the move, from what I can detect, but I could be wrong, there is a large amount of jamming in the air," the subordinate growled. "As for the Flood, sir, better to ask where they aren't, it'll be a shorter list."

"Civilian population centers?" the major asked.

"Already under siege."

"Then we have our orders and our duty. We will burn this parasite from our home, then deal with the traitors."

"Gods, turn it off…" he heard Dove whisper back in the present.

He looked back over to woman, who seemed to be shuddering despite her attempts to remain calm. The Spartan nodded and pressed a button on the tank. The image flickered and died.

"Now do you understand?" he asked Drizzt.

"I do… more than you can imagine," the Drow whispered.

"Look, it's been a bit of a long day, why don't you guys head to the mess hall?" Cortana asked, appearing in the tank. "I'll get some drinks ready for the Lords and Ladies, and we can discuss what we need to do when the Drow come to try and take back Mithril Hall."

There was a murmur of agreement from the assembled members of the Lords Alliance, and they slowly turned as John moved to the front to the line to guide them towards the mess hall.

As they filed out, Drizzt looked back over his shoulder towards the holotank. He knew that he would carry these memories with him for the rest of his seven hundred year long life. Part of him, though, was more confused than ever. What did the future hold for him? His friends? His world? The battle that was coming, one way or the other, would change Faerun irrevocably.

He thought he heard the voice of his father for a moment, telling him to worry about it when the time came. For now, there was a battle to plan for. The Dark Elf found himself agreeing with that voice. When the time for the battle came, he intended to be there with his friends and allies. Newfound and old alike.

* * *

'&

* * *

And there it is, at long last. I shall now await the salvo of rotten produce, rocks, and intercontinental ballistic missiles that may be coming in my direction.

Thanks again, folks, and stay safe and hopefully more sane than I am feeling at the moment.


	25. Chapter 24: Plotting

Well… at long last, and the better part of a year without an update, I'm back. Two, in fact. I apologize profusely to everyone who has been waiting for so long for me to finally get around to doing this. The truth of the matter is that Law School continues to be a massive time sink, leaving me with little free time or sanity to do much of anything else. I'm in my final semester, dealing with seven classes, and one of them being my ALWR, which doesn't help matters. After which, the difficult part of my legal career begins, namely, trying to pass the Bar on the first go and then securing employment so that I may begin the tedious process of paying back the small fortune that I owe Uncle Sam for the student loans.

The good news, though, is that I have finally finished with the rough draft of the story. Part of the reason I stopped updating here was I didn't have the time to both write, critique, and polish at the same time. With that out of the way, I can now focus on the polishing… though no doubt there are still enough errors in this thing to keep a red pen factory in business for a month. Hopefully, though, I can once again resume regular updates, now that the story's fully written.

I will also go ahead and apologize for some of the content present in this chapter. You will know it when you see it. Suffice to say… I was rather… uncomfortable writing certain sections of this chapter. The year and a half since it was originally typed up has not changed my feelings towards it. But I do not know what to do. My writing talents are too limited to come up with a way to get around this. Hopefully, Chapter 25 will be much, much more to your liking.

With that in mind, I once again thank everyone who has reviewed and read this story. Thank you, for taking the time out of your lives to read this story. I only hope that it is worth that time. Thank you also, for putting up with my increasingly hectic personal life. I will resume responding to reviews on an individual basis after this, so please feel free to ask any questions you may have regarding this story, big or small. Critiques and constructive criticism are welcomed with open arms. Flames shall be accepted as well, so that I might use them to heat my home next winter and save on the bill.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Four- Plotting.**

* * *

Jarlaxle paced back and forth furiously within the headquarters of his mercenary group. He kept running the numbers over in his head. He had lost forty of his troops during the bungled defense of Mithril Hall, most of them thanks to these strange Demons and King Bruenor's otherworldly allies. His hands were clasped behind him, and he kept glaring at whatever wall he happened to be facing at the time. He was deep in thought, occasionally pausing in his stride to bring his hand up to his chin and rub at it thoughtfully.

Dinin Do'Urden suddenly walked into the room, a frown upon his face. Jarlaxle turned to acknowledge the presence of his subordinate, and arched an eyebrow.

"Your—" he caught himself and shook his head. "Matron Baenre wants to meet with you."

Jarlaxle cocked his head to one side. There was a noticeable quaver in the voice of the former prince of House Do'Urden. It was not something that Jarlaxle would be used to hearing from the man. Something was up. He narrowed the gaze of his one visible eye, and strode from the room, his armor moving against his body and his weapons belt thumping against his hips.

Normally, such noise would be the sign of someone dangerously unwary. In the Underdark, noise was how many predators hunted. Such a racket would give you away to them, and you'd find yourself part of their next meal. Or it could be taken as a sign of weakness by a person looking to kill you and move up in the ranks. Here, though, Jarlaxle felt no fear. These were his men, his women. He had taken them in, sheltered them when no one else would. They possessed the trait of loyalty, so foreign and alien to the rest of his people.

Which was why he was so upset about the outcome of the Mithril Hall occupation, something that had cost him the lives of dozens of his soldiers. Why hadn't a counter assault of that nature been seen? Why hadn't Lolth warned them?

The mercenary captain hid his bitterness and anger deep within his mind, and straightened his face out into a flamboyant smile as he entered into the back alleys and shadows of his hometown. It was harder than usual to remain hidden here. Soldiers were being brought in from all over the underdark. Tens of thousands… hundreds of thousands. And that wasn't even counting the untold myriad of slaves that were being shackled into the preparations. He wondered why so many were needed. Was it possible that the Matrons had known about the arrival of the strange demons, but had not seen fit to warn him and the others of such a possibility? A single pulse of rage raced through him, but he smothered it again. Slippery as he could make his thoughts, it would not do to give the Matrons a target to latch onto, especially if who he thought would be present really was.

* * *

The guards parted before Jarlaxle as he made his way deeper and deeper into the depths of House Baenre. He could feel the magic that still faintly thrummed through these walls. It seemed somewhat more powerful than it had been a few days ago. Perhaps that was a sign that things were getting better? Who could guess thus far?

As he passed the ornate columns of the grand hall and entered the chapel of the House, he was met with the sight of the main matrons, all eight of them. Three hundred years of surviving where none should have had prepared the mercenary captain well for the sight that lay before him. The matrons floated upon their thrones, discs of blue-white light supporting them. In their hands they clasped their scepters and other objects of power, while their loyal body guards surrounded them. The female troops looked towards the male, and he could see their faces twist into masks of disdain. Jarlaxle ignored them, for there was something far more important in the room. Or rather, someone.

She was a Drow, at least at first glance. She was, however, impossibly perfect in her physical appearance. There were no other words fit to describe her, and the mercenary knew that he was looking upon Lolth herself, or rather, one of her avatars. Next to her was a brazier, burning with black fire and filling the room with the stench of sulfur and rotten flesh. He could see a pair of red, malevolent eyes staring back at him from inside of the flames, and he wondered what was going on here.

Best to show respect, he decided, getting down on a knee and bowing low before the matrons.

"Rise," Matron Baenre said.

The male did as he was commanded, and stood with his hands clasped behind his back. All eyes were upon him, and he could feel the weight of their gazes upon him. His eye narrowed, and he wondered what they wanted him here for. Surely this could have been conveyed to him through a simple message.

"We wish to know what you thought of the creatures that assault the Hall," Lolth spoke, her voice echoing in his ears and within the depths of his mind. "We believe we have a plan to crush them, but I cannot observe the fiends. It is troubling."

"You mean that the Troubles are over?" Jarlaxle asked, cocking his head to the side. How long ago had this happened?

He received a lance of pain to his mind, a blow that nearly drove him to his knees.

"Does that answer your question, fool?" Lolth asked. "My patience is short. I have plans that must be implemented, and alliances that have to be secured now that my house is back in order."

"My apologies, Milady," he said with a gasp. His mind felt as if it were on fire and gripped in the talons of a dragon. He tried to blink past the pain, and focus his thoughts.

"The creatures were unlike anything we'd ever seen before. The one that I encountered was large… far too large to be a Human, and clad in a suit of armor that our warriors could not damage." He took a breath. "Its allies were similarly equipped. Everything that challenged them died, torn to shreds by weapons that roared like Balors. Others wielded blades that tore through our armor and weapons as if they were made of the crudest iron and roth hide."

Lolth's gaze narrowed and Jarlaxle let out another gasp of pain as he felt the deity probe his mind. He managed to suppress his fear of what she might find, an action that probably saved his life, he realized. He could feel the goddess poking around inside of his memories, first upon the battle scene where Briza had met her end, and then upon the assault of Mithril Hall. She stopped short of the part where he and his troops had fled, and withdrew from his mind.

"So, you speak the truth." She frowned. "We may need yet more allies to deal with these fiends."

"There is a solution," the voice from the brazier spoke. Jarlaxle recognized the impossibly deep timber as the voice of a Demon, probably a very big one. "My agents that were defeated at the Hosttower spoke of a Tiefling being present. One that is related to the mighty Mephasm."

Lolth stared over at the flames for a moment, and then a wicked grin appeared upon her face. She nodded her head slowly, and her fists started to clench, as if she were imagining grabbing something around the throat and squeezing the life from it.

"Yes," she tapped a finger against her lips. "Yes, that would work. Her blood has some of his in it. Properly attuned, and with the right enchantments, she could be useful indeed."

"You will gain the most powerful ally that you could in my master," the voice spoke. "And I will have the freedom I so desire. But do not forget our bargain."

"How could I, Errtu," She smiled at the flames.

Jarlaxle's eyes widened, and he understood. Errtu was a Balor, a mighty one at that, ruler of his own level of the Abyss. He had gotten careless several years ago, though, and Drizzt had managed to dispatch him. He would be bound within the abyss for a century, unable to do much of anything but skulk and plot. Unless, either the one responsible for his banishment were to free him willingly, or… Or, if a being with enough power broke the curse. There was only one such being with both the power and the inclination to do such a thing. Jarlaxle had to repress a shudder. He almost felt sorry for Drizzt and his allies. What was about to come their way would be something that would be most unpleasant.

* * *

Commander Miranda Keyes blinked as she stared at the holographic display before her. Within the chamber, Grunts, Dwarves, and humans were all toiling to erect barricades and set up electronic machinery to help prepare a command center. The noise around her was nearly deafening, making concentration a tedious effort at best. It was, however, a necessary evil. It had been two weeks since the enemy had been driven from Mithril Hall, and every second that was delayed was another second that the enemy had to try and retake the Dwarven stronghold. Defenses were being scrambled into place, battle plans drawn up, and then fall back plans, secondary plans, and as many conceivable avenues of attack brought to light as possible.

Magic had started working again just a few days ago, and that meant that the Drow would be coming all the sooner, now that their primary edge had been fully restored.

Cortana popped up next to her, out of another holographic projector, and crossed her arms over her chest. Symbols and glyphs flashed over her body as she rapidly changed color from blue to greenish-aqua. Keyes had been around the A.I. construct long enough to realize that that had meant that she was excited by something.

"Update?" she asked.

"The Chief and Orna are inbound with another PD cannon," she said, a cool smile coming over her face, "and the training of the native forces is going well. I wish we had more equipment available to them, but you know how it is."

"Believe me." Keyes nodded, flipping a strand of hair out of her vision. "Still, every Plainsman, Dwarf, and Human that we get shored up here is going to be worth ten of what he used to be, easy. Where are Lord Nasher and King Bruenor?"

"They just got done meeting with Khelgar and some of the Ironfist Dwarves. They're on their way to meet with you." Cortana glanced over at the map of Mithril Hall that her commander was staring at so intently.

"Keeping an eye on the sensors?"

"All quiet on the western front… and the north, east, and south." Keyes frowned, and rubbed her chin. "I almost wish I was dealing with Truth again. I still haven't learned everything I can about these Dark Elves."

"Well, at least we've been making progress in other fronts," Cortana nodded towards the tome of spells that was on the table.

Keyes nodded. Nothing truly offensive yet, but Helm had told them to focus on the defensive after all. She still wasn't certain how good she was at stopping the intrusions of others into her thoughts, but it was getting harder and harder for the Many Stared Cloaks to snoop on her mind during training sessions.

"You seem excited by something," Keyes said, moving a stylus over the holoprojector in front of her and tapping it against a few of the defensive sites indicated upon it. Displays and read outs leapt to life, outlining mines, auto turrets, and barricades that had been erected.

"I'm making progress with my studies and experiments," Cortana said, flexing her holographic hands. The sound of knuckles cracking reached Keyes' ears, barely audible over the din. "There's so many things the natives haven't thought of. I'm expecting breakthroughs very soon."

"What happens then?" Keyes smirked at the A.I.

"Not much," Cortana shrugged her shoulders. "We become more dangerous, the Master Chief and Sergeant Johnson probably fall in love with my toys all over again, and I begin plotting a bid for world domination…" she paused and brought a hand up to her mouth, her eyes wide with false shock.

Keyes couldn't help it. She laughed. For the first time in days, she laughed and shook her stylus at the mischievous computer. "Keep that up and I'll have your behavior matrix cut out. You're supposed to keep your megalomania under control."

Cortana merely smiled, and then gestured towards the door. Bruenor, Nasher, and several other Dwarves walked through, presumably Ironfist delegates. There was another Dwarf as well, one she had come to recognize over the past few days. Pwent. Leader of the Gut-Busters. The Dwarf was a shocktrooper if ever there was one. His armor was covered in spiked plates and claws, meant to rend and tear into the flesh of an enemy. It was capped off by a quarter meter long spike on the top of his helmet. He was also a borderline psychopath and in desperate need of a bath. The scuttlebutt around the Hall was that Pwent's underarm odor could wilt a sturdy flower at fifty yards.

Keyes resigned herself to breathing through her mouth for the duration of this meeting, and snapped to a salute as the others drew near. Though the two rulers saw her as an equal, it would be best to be respectful. Nasher and Bruenor returned the gesture in their own fashions, and then the group turned their attention to the read outs before them. Keyes tapped a few controls and blew the display up.

"Gentlemen," Keyes said, highlighting the lower areas of the Hall. "Our defensive preparations are going well. We're dismantling eight of the Dawn's point defense weaponry, and we expect it to be set up and primed by the end of the day," she clasped one hand behind her back and brought up a read out on the weapon.

It was a six barreled monster that made a thirty millimeter autocannon look like a spitball shooter. There had been close to thirty of them on the Dawn, and they were set up in pairs, covering major avenues of approach. Cortana would have control of them during the battle, ensuring that every single round was on target and nothing was wasted. The natives seemed satisfied enough by that, and by the mines that they'd put into place. What had Keyes more concerned was the training that they were attempting to give to the elite forces of the surface dwellers. Some were taking to it with more enthusiasm than others were.

"Good to hear," Bruenor said with a grin, leaning forward on his axe. "What about those 'sensor' things?"

"Long range sensors are in place," she said, highlighting areas that were outside of the Hall. They were similar in nature to the ones that the Master Chief had first used in order to set up the perimeter around the Dawn, but armed with a more powerful transmitter for longer range. "We have several dozen covering the outer avenues of approach. When the Drow move their forces up, we'll get about four hours of warning. We're currently working on a secondary and tertiary ring closer to the Hall to give additional warning, just in case they find a way to bypass the first one."

The assembled natives nodded in approval.

"To be honest, I'm not really all that worried about the fighting inside of the hall itself. King Bruenor's forces know this place like no one else, and with the edge that we can give in addition to our defensive measures and our own forces, we should be able to force the Drow to bleed for every centimeter of ground that they take, if they can take it at all."

"Then what has you concerned?" Lord Nasher cocked his head to the side.

In response, Keyes pulled the holomap back out, further and further, until the hall disappeared behind the mountain that held it. She waved the stylus around the large hilly field that lay outside the massive double doors.

"This," she remarked, moving the stylus up and highlighting a few caves that were some ways off. "The Drow could use these caverns to circumvent our underground defenses and assault us on two fronts. I've consulted with Drizzt and several others who have experience with Drow combat tactics. They're pretty certain that the Drow will attempt a pincher movement to hit us on multiple fronts. This represents one of the best places to do it."

"We were discussing this in our own meeting as well," Lord Nasher said, rubbing his trimmed beard and nodding his head. "The Knights of Silver have been able to spare five hundred of their number to help defend it, and ten times that amount of standard Silverymoon infantry, and my own troops can bring about nine hundred mounted, perhaps four thousand foot."

"More or less ten thousand troops," Keyes chewed on her lip, "not enough to turn back any dedicated attack. And the doors won't hold against a concentrated arcane assault. Drizzt said that if the Drow are careful about it, they could call in as many as a half a million troops or more if they use their slaves, as well as other hostiles." She let the sentence die. The others were aware of what the ranger had told them. Mind Flayers, creatures that resembled humans with octopi for heads and a fondness for sentient brains. Gray Dwarves, who would be eager to get their hands on the hall and its vast resources, and all too willing to mine it for the Drow to use in a surface campaign. Even things like Demons and Dragons were not outside the realms of possibility.

"What of your vehicles?" Lord Nasher asked.

"That's why I wanted to meet with you," the Commander said as she used her stylus to open up a series of files. Within moments, Cortana had faded and read outs of UNSC vehicles appeared, along with Covenant ones. "With your permission, we'd like to use them to help support the infantry that will be deployed here."

"You don't have to be asking for my permission to help defend my home," Bruenor said, a warm smile upon his face. "We're strapped for allies as it is. Having someone step up and volunteer is never something to be turned down."

Keyes nodded her head, and highlight an anti-infantry Warthog and a Specter.

"You've seen the Warthog and Specter in action before, Milords," Keyes said. "We've got four in the anti-infantry configuration, and two specters. Our plans were to deploy them along the flanks of the main infantry barricades, supporting a few additional autocannons and some heavy machineguns, here," she turned to the field's display, and with a few waves of her stylus, she highlighted the hill tops, and a series of blocks sprang into existence.

"These are?" Bruenor asked.

"A little something that the Master Chief and Cortana came up with," Keyes said with a grin."

Outside the hall, one of the Dawn's Pelican's rocketed overhead, coming to a stop over the fields. Down below, a number of Greycloaks and other troops from the Lords Alliance shielded their faces as the dropship touched down. The back door opened, and the Master Chief walked out, followed by a squadron of Sangheili, carrying the components of one of the _Forward unto Dawn's_ point defense weapons.

Neeshka approached him and the others as they drew near their ultimate destination: a series of thick tree trunks that had been magically woven together by the Many Starred Cloaks. The Tiefling offered a salute as the Master Chief lugged a generator so heavy that he was nearly bent over double carrying it on his back. John took note of it, and while she was grinning widely, he could tell that she was trying to get the salute correct. Her hand was a little too far out, though. There would be time to correct it later however, and he allowed himself a hidden smile.

He carefully swung the generator off of his back and placed it against the ground, while the rest of the Elites set up the power connectors, targeting sensors, and the weapon itself.

They positioned it in a small slit of sorts between the logs. It was just wide enough to allow the gun to pivot from side to side and increase and decrease its angle of elevation to fend off attacks from the air or if people got too close to it. Murder holes had also been carved out in order to allow for the troops inside to take potshots at the encroaching armies. Each bunker would also have a slot for a heavy machine gun, to allow for rapid elimination of targets that didn't quite merit a blast from the autocannon.

The Spartan hooked up a portable targeting interface, used by the rank and file whenever they carried a Stanchion into battle. Here, it would enable Cortana to interface with the weapon remotely, and ensure maximum accuracy.

Now it would be time for the Many Starred Cloaks to do their work. Two of them stepped forward, chanting and muttering under their breath as they furiously weaved their hands back and forth. The sound of their voices rose as they neared the end of their spell, and as they finished, they placed their hands against the logs. The area that they touched rapidly turned from brown to gray, becoming pocked and pitted as its molecular composition was changed from wood to reinforced stone. Down below, in the small valley between the hills, more mages were at work, carving out trenches with their earth moving spells, before the built up dirt and soil were also petrified and turned into stone and metal barricades. The other side of the pit was then carefully lined with rows of concertina wire and abatises. The ridge in front of each pit would be lined with heavy weapons, mostly fifty caliber rotaries, but there would be a couple of M-27 belt fed grenade launchers as well.

The mages had been curious about the applications of their magic at first, given how much this sort of material deviated from the norm. Movement off to his side caught his attention, and he realized that it was one of the Harpell wizards, moving about on what had to be the most bizarre mount that the cyborg had ever seen. It resembled a cross between a horse and a frog, and moved with great bounding leaps that covered the better part of fifty meters.

He shook his head and bent down to hook up the power generator to the autocannon. Once it was primed and ready, another spell would be cast, one that would create arcane wards around the bunker. The Commander doubted that the Drow wizards would have the range necessary to engage the autocannons before being ripped to shreds, but she was taking no chances.

The Spartan turned his attention back to Neeshka, and she saluted him once again. He chuckled softly this time, so quietly that only the Tiefling heard it, and then stepped forward and corrected her posture. She smiled at him as he stepped back and returned the gesture.

As he returned to a more at ease posture, The Spartan was once again reminded of his former brothers and sisters. Memories flooded over him, flashbacks of the few times that he and his siblings had cut loose after their training missions. Such as that time that they had made off with the 578th ODST's Regimental flag and spent the next two days hiding out on one of Reach's islands, catching shellfish and allowing themselves to forget, for a moment, that they were supposed to be weapons.

He snapped back to reality, and remembered that his next assignment was to go assist Johnson in training some of the more elite soldiers of the Lord's Alliance in the use of firearms. He motioned for Neeshka to follow, and the Tiefling happily took up a position a few meters to his rear.

* * *

"Additional fire support will be provided by the Pelicans, Scorpions, and the Rhino," Keyes said, pulling the scope of the map back out. "Mortar teams will be stationed along the ridges and approaches to the valley, hopefully out of range of counter attack, but we've got heavy support troopers to back them up in case things get hairy." The map pulled back further still. "And here," she placed the stylus against a particular region, some fifty kilometers away from the expected battle zone, "will be our Avenger."

The Avenger was a multiple launch rocket system, over the horizon artillery that could be employed with devastating effect against enemy infantry. The vehicle was as large as the Rhino tank, with a massive seven by seven box shaped rocket launcher system. The missile fired by this particular vehicle was the STS-2 "Atoll." With its extreme range, excellent, A.I. controlled guidance systems, and multiple secondary thrusters and stabilizer fins, the Atoll missile was feared by anyone who knew what it could do.

The Dawn had nearly two hundred missiles for the MLRS, ranging from scatter warheads, which set off secondary devices to impact alongside the main one, to incendiaries, thermobarics, and bunker busters.

A trio of Elites would have to be stationed to reload the device and man its last resort weaponry if the enemy somehow managed to get in close, but Keyes considered it a small price to pay to be able to reuse the device's ungodly firepower.

"Fire from the Avenger will be held until we can lure most of the Drow army out onto the field of battle." The commander said. "Once they're out, the bunker busters will fire first, followed by scatter heads. The former will hit the caves, burying them and cutting off any escape, while the rest turn the fields into a chaotic mess filled with lots, and lots, of dead bodies."

The Dwarves and Lord Nasher nodded their heads, and Keyes zoomed the map back in to the main field. She highlighted the trenches that were there, selecting different colors with the stylus. The ones closer to the Hall were a bright red, the ones further out, yellow. Beyond that, she drew circles around certain areas of the field.

"The red lines represent where our troops will be stationed. We're erecting barricades and firing points along these points," she drew a faint 'V' shape in the area leading from the entrance caves towards the lines. "This will force the Drow and their troops towards a narrow point that we can easily hold with our troops. Supporting them will be Sangheili, Unggoy, and Lotar," She said, as she clasped her hands behind her back. "They are veteran soldiers, they've fought the Dark Elves before. They can keep the morale of the others high, show them that the enemy is mortal, that they are vulnerable and they _can_ be beaten."

"Excellent," Bruenor said. "The dogs are likely to send their slaves in first, let them take the brunt of the assault. You mentioned a little surprise for those fellows."

"Indeed I did," Keyes' grin was almost feral. "With the help of Ten Towns forces and Plainsmen, we've managed to set up drilling points and mining operations near the Dawn," the Commander said, and she quickly brought up a world map, temporarily replacing the one of the Hall and its surroundings. "We've gotten access to Uranium, oil, tungsten, and additional material to make our explosive charges in the Dawn's manufacturing center. Combined with the steel ore that Lord Nasher has lent us, we're in the process of producing mines."

"Like those lotus bombs?" Pwent spoke up, stroking his beard, the one kempt bit of hair on his body.

"Similar, but smaller, and more numerous," a diagram of one of the mines popped up. "They're not as powerful as the Lotus, but it doesn't take as much to set them off, and we can scatter them throughout this area here," she brought the map of the Hall back up. "The mine should be powerful enough to kill anything within fifteen meters of the detonation point." She cut to a demonstration on the hologram, of a group of Orcs charging over the ground. One of them stepped on the ground, activating the mine's proximity pressure detonator. A micro charge on the bottom detonated, shooting the mine up into the air. It detonated at about chest level, and the Orcs quickly turned into something that typically came out of a meat packing plant. "It won't keep them away from the defenses, but that's not their purpose. They funnel the troops towards the killzones, make them go where we want them to go."

"Even then, however, we cannot make too many, given how we have to split the Dawn's resources. To try and fill the gap, Fougasses are also being manufactured." She gestured to a corridor leading to one of the forges. There, Dwarven laborers were hard at work constructing tar lined tubes into which blasting powder would be put. These would be buried, and covered with rocks and metal shards, both of which had been covered in explosive, arcane runes. Keyes felt certain that the results would be devastating. The sooner they could throw the second branch of the Drow army into confusion, the better.

"Additional defenses include spike pits running along the width of the valley," Keyes pointed to the second set of highlighted trenches. "We've set up a number of pits of varying depths and widths to keep the enemy guessing, and have disguised some with arcane means such as invisibility fields and the like, and others with more mundane objects such as wooden planks and turf. It'll hold the weight of one or two individuals, but if a group tromps across it, it breaks, and down they go." A simulation followed. She smirked. "Just in case the fall doesn't prove lethal, the spikes have been tipped with poisons that we 'appropriated' from Luskan."

"Ironic… I like it," Nasher mused, rubbing his beard again. "Anything else."

"Some of the pits have been sloped and lined with proximity spells to set off grease traps when groups of hostiles are too near to them. Aside from that, and some punji-sticks, we're prepping our UAVs to be able to drop large numbers of flares and flash-bang grenades, and caltrops are also being deployed."

The assembled troops nodded approvingly. The Drow would almost certainly attack at night, to try and give themselves the edge. They knew that Humans couldn't see in the dark, and even though Surface Elves and Dwarves had better night vision than Humans, it still didn't match the keen sight that the Underdark dwellers had. With luck, a number of them would be blinded.

There was a sudden beeping on her comm unit, and she opened up the channel. It was Johnson.

"Problem, Sergeant Major?" she asked.

"Yes and no, ma'am," Johnson responded. "The 'Cloaks have given up trying to get information out of our prisoners They were wondering if we might be willing to give it a shot."

Keyes paused for a moment, and then tapped a finger to her lips. She looked out over the assembled troop before her, and ideas started coming into her head. She snapped her fingers a moment later.

"Tell them we'll give it a try," she told the Sergeant Major, and then turned to Pwent. "Excuse me, Battlerager, but I'm going to need your help, and Drizzt's."

Pwent cocked his head to the side, and then looked to his King. Bruenor's eyes were sparkling, and his cheeks flushed as he began to laugh. Keyes was suddenly reminded of Saint Nicholas for some strange reason.

"I think I can see where this is going to go," he said, before motioning Pwent to go on. "Go give her a hand," he said, "Nasher and the rest of us will be down at the range with the Sergeant."

Pwent nodded his head and fell in line behind here. Keyes headed towards the portable medical lab they had set up further into the Hall. There were a few things that she needed to grab before she went and introduced herself.

* * *

Keyes walked into the holding cell. The Luskan prisoners were restrained, blindfolded, and gagged, and Alicia trapped that had a rune circle that kept her arcane powers in check. It was something the mage did not seem happy about, nor the chains that connected her to the wall. Normally, the prisoners would be kept separate, but there was so much going on that the force necessary to guard them could not be spared. As such, other measures had to be taken. Thus far, there had been very little information that had been gathered from them, but they had to keep trying. These had been the elite troops of Luskan, and Alicia one of the pupils of an Archmagi. If anyone had information on what the Drow had as far as battle plans and force projection capabilities, it would be them. Keyes slung a pack off her shoulder as Pwent, Drizzt, and Dove moved up behind her. The short Dwarf had a feral grin upon his face and was popping his knuckles.

Keyes held out a hand to restrain him, and motioned for Drizzt and Dove to remove the prisoners' gags and blindfolds.

The sight of the three guards reaction to the violet eyed Drow was enough to pull a smile from her face. The men recoiled in horror, shuffling away from Drizzt as much as their chains would allow them, while babbling incoherently. Just as she'd hoped. For once, she could use the psychological reputation of the Drow to her advantage.

She stepped forward. Though not as tall as Sergeant Johnson, or anywhere near the proverbial mountain that was the Master Chief, she was still an imposing figure in her armor. She placed her pack of supplies on a ledge next to the entrance of the cell, and began rummaging through it. Inside were a number of drug injections, hallucinogens, and other means of information extraction.

"So, anyone wish to talk about the Drow?" she asked, pulling out the gleaming needles to where the torchlight shone upon them. She glanced over at the three men. They were white as a sheet, and Alicia seemed to be somewhat unnerved.

There was power behind that name, the Commander realized. She was dealing with something that would require a delicate hand. This was not merely trying to get the troops in front of her to tell her what she needed to know, this was trying to get them to overcome their fear of the Dark Elves, to overcome the fear of an entity that was used as a nightmarish bedtime story to keep children in line, of a people whose barbarism and cruelty matched only that of what Humans themselves were capable of. Once again, it seemed like bringing Drizzt along had been a good idea.

Met only with silence, Keyes crossed her arms over her chest plate, and cocked her head to the side.

"We can do this very easily," she kept her voice level and calm. "You can tell me what I want to know, after which we'll leave you in peace until after the battle for the Hall, or, we can do this the hard way, and you can keep resisting until I'm forced to get nasty."

One of the prisoners snorted, and Pwent cast a sideways glance at her. It was hard to tell with the beard in the way, but she had the distinct impression that the Dwarf was frowning at her.

"Go ahead," she motioned to the prisoner that had snorted at her, the one in the center, "tell me what's on your mind."

"No whips, no poisons, or knives, not even a rack or a wheel," the man sneered at her, "nothing but words. You have a rather feeble way of trying to get us to talk." His eyes drifted to her and Dove, and Keyes glared at him. "Of course, there are other ways of getting a man to talk."

The Commander heard the Ranger growl softly, and her hand went to the blade on her waist. Not a bad idea, Keyes thought to herself. She smirked, and motioned for Drizzt to come over to her. The Drow seemed upset by the comment that the man had made, and his eyes burned with rage as he walked over towards her.

All the prisoners heard was a hushed whispering between the strange woman and the equally enigmatic Drow. Drizzt nodded his head, and walked forward. As he did, he withdrew a figurine. Moments later, Guenhwyvar burst into being. The prisoners edged back slightly as both Drow and Panther stood before them.

"Which of you is least important?" Keyes asked, crossing her arms again, and letting her gaze harden to steel.

"What?" the question came from Alicia.

"Which of you is least important?" she asked again. There was a touch of anger in the query this time.

They stared around, as if stricken dumb. Just as Keyes suspected they would. Time for the next part. "Fair enough," she growled, and motioned to Drizzt. "The one on the left."

The man's face twisted into a mask of confusion, before becoming a dictionary definition of terror as Drizzt advanced towards him. He pointed to the man, and Guen charged forward. The panther grabbed the prisoner's mithril chains, and tugged hard. Guenhwyvar, a being born of magic and endowed with a strength greater than any of her mortal cousins, ripped the shackles straight out of their rock anchors, and began dragging the man from the cell. Drizzt turned to follow.

As he passed Keyes, she reached into her bag, and extended a black object towards him, no larger than her thumb. "Use this," she said, and smiled at him, a grin that the Drow returned, "I'm sure you can be very… creative… with it."

"The pleasure will be all mine. It is not the way of my people to be easy with our prisoners…" the Ranger said.

What little color was left on the Luskan's face disappeared in that instant. He was dragged out, and the two headed for another chamber, deeper in the prison. A large iron door separated the two areas. Drizzt kept his pace steady as he approached it, and the man in front of him began to plead and babble like an infant as he was dragged along the stone floor by the enormous black cat. Cries for mercy and offers to tell the Dark Elf whatever he wanted to know went unheeded. As they reached the door, he instructed for his friend to drop the man. Guen did so, and then paced up until her fanged maw was scant inches away from the man's face.

The Luskan stared up, eyes pleading as Drizzt raised the device high. He pressed something on it, and then in a flash, his scimitar was out and whirling. The man let out a piercing shriek that went on for several seconds. Just as the prisoner seemed to realize that the Drow wasn't advancing, Drizzt blurred forward and punched Icingdeath's pommel into the man's temple. He slumped over without a sound.

The Dark elf quickly turned back to the door and slammed it close, while pressing another button on the device. He rewound the recorder, setting it back to the beginning, and then, as Keyes had shown him earlier, pressed a button at the other end of it. This would extend the recording of the scream, and alter it to different pitches and intensities. He waited for a few seconds, and then pressed the play button again.

Another shriek, this one starting off loud, and then getting even louder, before dying away to a faint moan, echoed through the chamber.

Back in the holding cell, Keyes crossed her arms and put the most evil grin upon her face that she could muster. The racket reached the other prisoners, and even Alicia's face went slightly pale, and she shuddered.

"I don't need knives, or poisons, Luskan," she hissed, staring down at the one that had addressed her. "Not when I have one of 'their' kind on my side." She paused for a moment, and let the message sink in. "However, I do have a number of alternative means extracting information if you think you're strong enough to go ten rounds with a Drow blademaster." She reached into her bag, and pulled out a very large syringe loaded up with truth cocktails. She let the group stare at if for a moment before she motioned Pwent forward.

The men recoiled from the Dwarf, whether from his intimidating appearance, his rank odor, or some combination of the two, Keyes didn't know. Regardless, the Dwarf was playing his part. They weren't thinking straight, they were terrified of what she might do next. Time to start delivering the heavy blows, she thought, as another scream from Drizzt's "torture" echoed over to them.

Keyes started forward with the needle in her hand. She depressed the plunger slightly, letting some of the liquid drip out and drop onto the floor. Both of the Luskans shuffled away from her and she let another smile come to her face.

"Now, I suspect that as elite guards, you've probably had some training or been enscrolled to be able to resist magical truth telling probes. Am I right?" She asked. They didn't reply, but gave uneasy glances towards one another and the one furthest from her chewed on his lip.

"I'll take the silence as a yes. Now, I'm going to try one more time to be nice, before I start using this stuff," she shook the hypodermic slightly. "Now. What do you know of the Drow? What's their command structure? Do you know of anything that can be used against them?"

The one that had first spoken to her shifted his eyes up and to the right, paused for a few seconds, and then answered.

"We never heard the Arch-Magi speaking with anyone about anything really important." He said, stuttering slightly.

The Commander narrowed her gaze, and stuck a hand out, waggling her index finger back and forth. "Now, now," she said with a tone of one addressing a child who had just been caught stealing from the cookie jar, "what did I just tell you about lying?"

"It's the truth, I swear…" he began, before Keyes cut him off.

"I am many, things, Luskan, but an idiot is not one of them," she hissed and motioned to Pwent.

The Dwarf reached down and despite his smaller size, easily hefted the Human off of the ground. Keyes was brandishing the needle all the while. When he had to the right, he had subconsciously been accessing the right part of his brain. The part responsible for creative works of fiction, as opposed to logic and organization. "I've been in the field long enough to know when a person is lying to me. You. Were. Lying."

The man's jaw started to shake, and he kept clamping and unclamping his teeth. Keyes shook him, and placed the hypodermic right in front of his face. He looked at her again, unable to tear his eyes off of her.

"This needle contains a number of substances that will weaken your mind, your judgment, your ability to reason. In thirty seconds, it'll have you thinking that I've been your best friend since childhood. You'll tell me whatever it is I want to hear, whether you want to or not. Too much, though, can damage the mind beyond repair. It's a surprisingly fragile thing," she said, noting the cold sweat that had broken out over the man's face as another scream came from where Drizzt was, followed by laughter from the ranger and a roar from the panther that made even her spine tingle.

Drizzt was a very good actor, it seemed.

"One way, or another," she said, focusing the Luskan's attention back on herself, "I will get what I want to know. The question is, afterwards, are you going to be capable of thinking, or are you going to be a drooling wreck with a mind like a zombie? Make the call, my friend, you've got thirty seconds before I stick this needle through your neck and put this concoction into you."

Ten seconds passed, and the man began to shake. Fifteen, he looked ready to soil himself, but Keyes did not relent. She steeled herself for what she was about to do. She had never used this amount of the cocktail upon another Human. She reminded herself that there were lives at stake here. Ten seconds. Another well played scream from Drizzt, and Keyes placed the needle against the man's neck, ready to plunge it in.

"Alright!" he hissed, trying to shrink away from her. "Alright, please!"

Keyes took the needle away from the man's neck. "Speak," she said.

"I don't know much," he said, looking straight at her, his eyes not wavering at all. "I remember that the Arch-Magi spoke often with a Drow woman, an old crone, wrinkled as my grandmother's grandmother," he said. "Said her name was Matron Baenre, leader of the Dark Elves."

"I already know this. Try again, and think harder." She put the needle back in place, though not quite to his neck.

"Alright, alright!" he screamed. "There was someone else… something else. A demon of sorts. Big one, claimed to be one of the sub-lieutenants to Demogorgon himself!"

Keyes' arched an eyebrow. The tomes that Helm had given to them had spoken of that two headed monster, how it had the power of a God, and was feared by all mortal things. She remembered how its lust for destruction was rivaled only by its lusts for power and love of lies and deceit. The perfect bedfellow for the Drow. "Who was it?" she asked. "What was its name?"

"I don't know its real name," the man said, holding up a hand, "but it called itself Erttu. The demons your soldiers fought at the Tower were some of his minions. I'd suspect he wasn't too happy about them being wasted like that."

Keyes heard a gasp and looked over her shoulder at Dove. The other woman was pale beneath her tan skin, and her eyes fluttered over towards where Drizzt was at, still hard at work.

"A Balor," Dove whispered. "A very powerful Balor…"

Keyes nodded. She knew what those things were now, too. So, they had at least one Balor on their side… probably more than one, actually, if they were courting Demogorgon. Things might get complicated. It was time to double check the blessings on the ammunition.

"Anything else?"

"There are a few caches of magical artifacts and weapons stored in the Luskan underground," Alicia spoke up. All eyes jerked to face her. "I can provide you with a map to their locations. There's bound to be something in there useful to you and your cause."

Keyes raised her eyebrow again. "Awfully cooperative of you, kid, pardon me if I'm a little suspicious."

"Understandable," Alicia responded, crossing her arms. She was cool and collected, Keyes admired that. "However, look at things from my perspective: Luskan has fallen, and the Hosttower is in ruins. My masters are all dead, and even if the Drow come storming in here and defeat you, what are the odds that they'll let me go, as opposed to simply assuming that I gave out information and have me killed as a traitor to the cause anyway?"

Another scream from where Drizzt was echoed through the area, and the young mage shivered. "Something tells me they won't bother to scry my mind."

"Y-Y-you know," the other Luskan said, pausing to gulp and looking over at his companion, still trapped in Keyes' iron hard grip. "She's got a bit of a point. What do we gain by resisting?"

"Smart. Very smart." The Commander smiled, and suddenly grabbed him by the chin. "Regretfully, I have to inject this anyway. Just to be safe."

The man started to shake, and Pwent growled. He stopped instantly, but she could tell that he was about to start sobbing. She could hardly blame him. She pulled his face down, looked him in the eyes.

"Relax," she said. Some of the hardness was gone from her voice. "You've started to cooperate, I won't use the whole dosage, and your mind will survive the experience." She placed the needle next to his neck, but that part of him was still shaking and tensing up. "Stop it," she whispered to him. "You tense, you'll bend the needle. I don't think you want that."

The Luskan became as stiff as a board, and pale as Death himself. Keyes put the needle in, and depressed the plunger. She stopped after injecting a tenth of the hypo into him.

"That should be enough for you," she said. "Pwent, set him down, and let's move onto the next one."

In rapid succession, Alicia and the other remaining prisoner were quickly injected with localized dosages. Soon, Keyes was learning secrets that she knew would be vital to increasing the Drow casualties while decreasing those of her allies.

The Drow had begun lighting torches in their homes to prepare for the light of the surface. That would mean that despite this clever attempt at adaptation, that Flash-Bangs would still work. A torch and a ten million candela flash, after all, would be two different things entirely.

The Drow assault was to be lead by a number of captains, and Keyes made a note to remember the names of them all. One in particular stood out: Berg'inyong, if only because once again Dove's eyes widened upon hearing it. Keyes suspected that the Baenre weaponmaster and Drizzt must have had something of a history.

Other information astounded her. It was not merely the forces of one or two Drow cities that would march against the forces of Mithril Hall. A full half of the cities of the Dark Elves were being emptied of every slave, troop, wizard, and dark cleric that could be spared. This alarmed Keyes somewhat, but she quickly calmed as she remembered that either battle field would play to their advantage. The open fields would be a slaughter house of an epic caliber, while the tunnels would limit the number of troops that could come at the defenders. Indeed, more than equal things, the increasing bodies of slaves and the gore that would choke those tunnels would possibly even turn the numbers of the Drow army against them.

Once nothing else was there to be learned, she pivoted about and motioned for the others to follow her. Dove paused only briefly to go retrieve Drizzt and the prisoner, who would need to be resecured, and then they left the dungeon behind them.

* * *

Within the depths of Watcher's Keep, Demogorgon stirred. The twin headed Demon Prince growled faintly as he sensed magic in the air. Magic that was different from the chains and spells that kept him bound and in constant agony, assaulted by pain born in the forges of both Helm's divine citadel and the darkest pits of Baator. The twin heads looked at each other in confusion. What being would be foolish enough to try and penetrate here, into such a protected sanctum? Sealed by the power of a God, how could… he stopped short and closed both sets of eyes, probing at the spell that was building around him. He could sense divinity in it, but far from the horrid sensations of purity that came from Helm or one of his ilk this one felt dark, tainted… _corrupted. _

A small portal opened in front of him and Demogorgon adopted a neutral expression as a small being became visible. It looked like a Drow, albeit much taller than most of them. It was still dwarfed by the massive bulk of his form. However, he didn't need to probe much further to identify what he was looking at.

"Lolth…" his left head said quietly. "Entering the realm of the Watcher, so soon after your brush with mortality?" Both heads laughed. "The Troubles made you bold indeed."

"Helm cannot touch me, due to Ao's decree," the Goddess said with a smirk. "Assuming he even notices this. I'm not disrupting his warding, after all." He could see the smirk on her face.

"Why are you here?" the right head asked. It already knew the answer of course. Nothing came before the Demon Prince without wanting something.

"To offer you a bargain," the Queen of Spiders said in a smooth tone of voice. "This tormented existence is unbecoming of you, Lord of the Abyss, and I know your hearts long for vengeance against Helm and all his ilk."

A pulse of raw fury surged through the twin minds of Demogorgon as the Watcher's hated name was spoken. Heedless of the consequences he thrashed within his chains, ignoring how much deeper they bit into him every time he struggled against his prison. A thousand horrid fates danced before his eyes as Demogorgon imagined all the things he wished to do to the being with the audacity to imprison him.

It was many minutes before he regained control of himself. "What would you offer, Spider Queen, you cannot release us. That power is beyond you."

"True, it is, but I have another means by which I can aid you," She gestured and a smaller figure appeared next to her. "This is Triel Baenre, one of my most promising followers, daughter of my greatest High Priestess." As she spoke, the firstborn daughter of Matron Baenre bowed low before the Demon Prince.

"Get to the point." Demogorgon's eyes narrowed.

"You know that the magic of Baator forms a part of your cage. Such magic often requires blood sacrifices from those using it, especially ones as powerful as would be required to hold you," Lolth's grin widened. "We know the forger of some of your chains. And we know a way to use that magic against him for the purposes of freeing you."

"What do you require?" It was a struggle to keep the eagerness out of his voice and his mind focused on the here and now, rather than planning his revenge if Lolth spoke the truth.


	26. Chapter 25: Coping Mechanisms

**Chapter Twenty Five- Coping Mechanisms. **

The sound of singing, laughing, and the clanking of tankards could be heard throughout the depths and tunnels of Mithril Hall. Strangers would perhaps think the place under siege by enemy forces, and the racket the sound of battle being joined. It was often the case. Dwarves in battle and Dwarves in celebration tended to have similar noises.

However, the forces of the Drow were still gathering. Their army would take many days, weeks, perhaps, to cross the distance between Menzoberranzan and the Dwarven stronghold. Most of the defensive preparations were finished, save for those that would be reserved for the last minute. For now, the members of the alliance celebrated their ties and their hard work.

Neeshka looked down on it all with strange serenity. She was no stranger to alliances of oddity and necessity. During her travels with Kale, she had seen the Harborman bring together the forces of Neverwinter, the Dwarves of Clan Ironfist, the Lizardfolk of the swamps, and many others. His charisma and wisdom had helped to heal old and festering wounds, cool tempers, and break down walls of prejudice. While she may have had her disagreements with the Deity, or whatever he really was, Helm had chosen well when he had picked him as a champion.

Even so, that alliance had been one born partially of desperation and necessity, as the many individuals of the coalition had come to realize that the King of Shadows and his minions intended to kill them all and shackle all of Faerun into eternal service to his cause. This one, this one was similar, but there was something different, the Tiefling thought. As her tail lashed back and forth, she looked out among the gathered individuals. Plainsmen quaffed ale next to Dwarves, challenging each other to see whom could imbibe the most before slipping into unconsciousness or engaging in arm wrestling contests. The Tiefling giggled slightly, as she realized that Commander Keyes was going to be very unpopular tomorrow among some of the Humans.

She had made it quite clear that hangovers would not be viable excuses, and regardless of how they were feeling, they would be on the training field the next day.

She looked down again, and her eyes focused on Sergeant Johnson. Even from this distance, she could see his eyes twinkle, and he was laughing louder than she had ever heard before. The Tiefling suspected that the reason behind this was mainly due to the fact that he had received a gift from Lord Nasher for his services to Neverwinter and Clan Battlehammer: an elegantly carved mahogany pipe and several bags of the plant that he and the other UNSC troops termed Tobacco.

Neeshka had seen the stuff used before, as Grobnar and a few of the Ironfist dwarves had been quite fond of the stuff. She was never certain why. She was also curious about what Commander Keyes had said about Johnson trying to burn out his third set of lungs.

She suddenly became aware of another presence, and turned to see the Master Chief standing there. He was completely covered by his armor, as usual, and he moved up to stand against the railing. Neeshka shook her head. How could someone who was so large and heavy move so swiftly and silently? She looked into the gold plated visor of his helmet, trying to envision his pale face.

He slowly looked over towards her, and nodded his head.

Inside of his helmet, the Spartan was looking at the young girl, and the frown that suddenly came over her face. He cocked his head to one side quizzically, and wondered what could be wrong. There were a number of things it could be, really, or some combination of them. Best to find out now, he realized. There might be something that he could do about it.

"Are you okay?" he asked. He was tempted to lean against the railing, but decided not to. It might inadvertently damage it.

"Little worried I suppose," Neeshka said with a shrug. "What happens if the Drow manage to find a way around your defenses…" her tail lashed back and forth violently. "What if everything goes wrong? I've just… I've just got this feeling, in the pit of my stomach, that something bad is going to happen."

The Spartan nodded. He was all too aware of that feeling. He got it in his stomach every time he went into battle. Over the long decades of combat, he had learned how to suppress the fear to where it didn't bother him, but at the same time, he still had to listen to it. It was a warning system hardwired into his body, nature's way of letting him know when all was not well.

"We have a saying in the UNSC, something my instructor taught me," he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "No plan survives contact with the enemy. The Drow will try and find a way around what we plan, around what we do. We just have to be able to out-counter their counter plans. That's where we have the edge. They're not going to be used to fighting the kind of war that we're going to introduce them to. We, on the other hand, are familiar with their tactics."

"I think I understand," she whispered. She leaned against the rail, and then looked back up at the enormous soldier. "How many people do you think will survive the battle?"

"I can't say for sure. There are too many variables," the cyborg responded.

Neeshka frowned again, and cradled her chin on her fold arms. The last time that she had been in a battle like this, it had been in the fight for Crossroad Keep. She remembered the betrayal that had happened there, and the hundreds that had died because of it. The Dark Elves and their army of slaves would make Black Garius' forces look paltry and insignificant by comparison.

Down below, Sergeant Johnson excused himself and headed off into the tunnels.

Neeshka let her tail start to swing again, though it seemed to quickly develop a mind of its own, twisting and curling into a number of strange spirals as she continued to look down upon the assembled group.

Lord Nasher suddenly rose from his seat next to Bruenor and the other members of the Lord's alliance. Wearing his ceremonial armor and draped in a deep blue robe, he stood out among the throng. The Lord of Neverwinter raised his mug high, and called for a brief moment of silence.

"I want to thank our host for the wonderful gathering that we have had tonight," he nodded towards Bruenor, who chuckled and stood up to take a theatrical bow. "But, as we partake of this food, ale, and good company, let us not forget the purpose that binds us all here together. Be we Dwarf," he nodded towards the Ironfist and Battlehammer Dwarves, "men and women of the Lords Alliance," he let his free hand sweep over towards his fellow nobles and their present troops, "the Riders of Neseme," he gestured to the small group of them that were present, "the Plainsmen of the northern plains and the soldiers of Ten Towns," a hearty cheer met his remark, as Wulfgar and his fellows hefted their fists and let out a mighty warcry, "to the valiant knights of Silverymoon," he nodded to Dove and a small retinue of warriors accompanying her, and to Drizzt as well, sitting by her side, "to our newfound allies of the UNSC and the Neo-Covenant," Miranda Keyes nodded her head while the Elites and Grunts that were present saluted. "No matter our shape of body nor the color of our blood, we are united against a foe that would bind us in shackles, pillage and destroy our homes, and destroy everything that we have worked so hard to accomplish over the centuries." He paused, and lowered his ale sighing softly.

Slowly, he raised his head, and began to speak once more.

"I do not know how many of you will survive the coming battle, or if I myself will," Neeshka watched as he looked around the assembled group in the enormous hall. "Remember, though, that as we go into battle, what we fight for. Remember your children, and what shall be told to them of this time, when darkness gathered 'round like the shroud of Death, that for a single, glorious moment, the free peoples of Faerun forgot their differences and united together for a single purpose and goal." He clenched a hand into a fist and raised it up. "Let them know, and let them remember when bards sing of this coming day, when Plainsman fought with Neseme Rider, where Elves, Dwarves, Men, Sangheili, Unggoy, and Lek'golo saw each other as brothers shed their blood for the good of all goodly folk."

A hearty cheer erupted from all present. Neeshka wondered if deep down in their underground cities, if the Drow would hear that racket. Let them, she thought, her crimson eyes narrowing to a glare, let them know that there was no fear here. Let them know that there was no fear to be found within the hearts of Mithril Hall's defenders.

The Tiefling took a moment to turn her gaze inward. What would she do when confronted by the Dark Elves and their demonic minions? Keyes had told them of Erttu and his demonic soldiers, and she knew that there were a number of them that would be gunning for her. A tingle of apprehension trickled into her mind, but she swiftly squashed it. She needed only remember the King of Shadows, and the unspeakable horrors that he had employed when he had attempted defend his long dead country and suddenly the black skinned Elves, despite their huge numbers, seemed limited in what they could do to her.

Over to her side, the Master Chief could see the battle of serenity and apprehension within the Tiefling, and a smile came to his face as he saw the calm and peace slowly win out. Then a frown came to his face, and he thought about all that had happened in the many weeks that they had been stranded on this world. Neeshka had been with them from the beginning, showing them around, helping them with the locals, assisting them with weapons and fighting alongside them.

True, he had saved her life, but a soldier did not keep a count of such things. He had saved the lives of his brothers and sisters countless times, and they had saved his. A sense of gratitude also went only so far. Neeshka had willingly charged headlong into the depths of the Trollmoores to save soldiers that she knew nothing of and owed no loyalty to. She had gone into places and faced creatures that would have terrified any sane person in order to help their cause. She—

A sudden realization came over the cyborg then. Neeshka's attitude and to a lesser degree, her physical appearance, had reminded him much of his sister Kelly. Now that he thought about it, he wondered how much of it was a subconscious projection of his mind longing for the company of his family, and the genuine actions on the part of the Tiefling to help him and his fellows. She had in a way, become like an extension of his family, like Johnson was. Then came a second sobering realization. She had seen his face once, maybe twice, and still, she did not know more than the scantest of details about himself. She had trusted him with her life and well being on many occasions since they had first met on the frozen plains of Icewind Dale.

It was time to truly return that trust.

"A strange alliance," the Tiefling suddenly mused aloud. The Spartan snapped his gaze back to her, and watched as she pushed back up away from the railing. "So, Chief, when do you think they'll get here?"

"It depends on when they leave. It will take time to move an army as large as the one that they'll be massing. They'll need supply lines, places to rest that are large enough to house such a force, as well as scouts and overseers to make certain that none of the slaves use this as an ideal opportunity to make an escape attempt or a mass revolt…" he closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, "and it's John."

Neeshka gave him a look. "What?"

There was a hiss of air as he broke the seal on his helmet, and slowly lifted it off of his head. His hair was a tad longer as he hadn't taken the time to get it cut in the excitement of prepping the Hall for the assault. His skin was as pale as ever, making him look almost like a walking corpse.

Neeshka blinked as she stared into his green eyes. "My name is John."

The Tiefling's mind tumbled as if she had fallen over a cliff. He was giving her his name. All this time, he had acted as if he hadn't had one. Hells, when they'd first introduced themselves on the Dawn, the day after the battle, he'd denied even _having one_. What could cause a man wrapped in so much secrecy that even his comrades never addressed him by a name, merely as a title or a number or a code word, to tell her the name that he had been given at birth?

She caught a smile, a strange, crooked half grin, with the left side of the Spartan's mouth twitched up, while the right side remained tight lipped and neutral. Neeshka could see, though, that the smile reached up into his eyes. They sparkled and glowed softly, not with the inner light that they always seemed to possess, but rather, with warmth and camaraderie.

The Spartan placed the helmet back over his head, and sealed himself inside of his protective shell. Then he nodded towards her, and walked away. Neeshka was left speechless, lost in her own thoughts, but not for long.

"I hope you realize what that means."

She snapped her gaze up. Sergeant Johnson was standing at one of the entryways to the balcony level that she was on. He slowly walked towards her, smoke wafting out of the pipe he had clenched between his teeth. The Tiefling cocked her head to the side once again and crossed her arms over her chest.

"He's obviously very… secretive about that sort of thing," she began, chewing on her lip.

"Secretive nothing. There are fewer people that know his name than have seen his face," Johnson chuckled softly. "Outside of the chain of command that has the need to know for that kind of data, I reckon maybe five, six people at most, know who he really is." He sighed, and leaned back against the wall. "It's a sign of trust for a Spartan to tell you their name, Neeshka," he said, puffing slightly on the pipe, and then digging out some more tobacco. "It means they see you as a member of their family. You're one of them as far as they're concerned. It means that they'll trust you with their lives, and just as importantly, that if it comes down to it, they'll trust you to get the mission done if something happens to them and they can't."

"And you're one of those people?" she asked.

"I consider it one of the greatest honors of my life," Johnson said with a nod of his head. He sucked in a breath, and let a ring of smoke fly out of his mouth. "All I ask is that you honor that trust and that secret."

The young rogue nodded her head and her eyes narrowed. In an instant, she went from pondering to deadly serious. Within the realms of magic, names were power. Knowledge of her name and her heritage is what had enabled Black Garius to capture her and try to turn her against Kale and the others. Names were what had enabled Ammon Jerro to bind so many demons and devils to his control and take the battle to the King of Shadows. To know someone's name to was to _know_ them. And for a man who obviously trusted her enough to give her his greatest secret, a man who had seen her for who she was and looked past her heritage and her physical appearance, she could do nothing less. She nodded her head softly, and assumed a UNSC salute.

Johnson broke out into laughter, slapping his thigh and nearly choking upon his pipe. He walked over and ruffled her hair. "You're okay, kid. Going to be a little interesting having a new little sister in the gang."

Neeshka couldn't help it, she smirked. "So what does that make you?"

"Me?" Johnson said and chuckled again. "Why, I'm that favorite uncle that brings all the best presents at the holidays, but you know, deep down, is absolutely out of his mind insane."

This time, the Tiefling joined him in his mirthful laughter.

* * *

Helm let out a roar and brought his bastard sword down in a mighty chop too fast for an ordinary man to follow. In the blink of an eye, the haft of a warhammer stopped it. The two weapons were connected for only an instant, and what followed was a flurry of blows that seemed to split the air itself as he and his foe swung back and forth at one another, each one seeking to outdo the other.

At last, though, the contest came to an end. Helm took a step back from his far shorter opponent, and he and Moradin shared a bow of respect towards one another.

"How much longer, do you think?" Moradin grunted, leaning down upon his warhammer.

"I cannot say," the other god said, turning his back on his friend and walking over towards the wall. Then he gazed upon the many weapons and shields that hung from it. "Lolth pushes her army hard. The Time of Troubles made her impatient." A careless mistake, he thought. Still, one for the better. Mithril Hall's defenses were almost finished, and would be ready even if Lolth ordered her forces to run all day and night towards the Hall.

Exhausted troops were all the easier to slaughter.

"How bad do you think it will be?" Moradin asked.

"The future is somewhat clouded about this…" Helm said, turning back to face the Dwarven god. "There are many branches, many paths… more than I can count. I have tried to plan for as many as I can, and studied the others, so as not to be caught off guard." He paused, and his eyes glowed a little dimmer. "All will end in bloodshed, death and sorrow. Some will simply have more than others."

"Something the matter?" Moradin asked.

"Just… old memories, my friend," Helm whispered. "Mistakes of the past, incorrect assumptions that have lead to more death than can be imagined. Blood upon my hands. The feeling that there is more that I could have done. More that I should have done."

"What?" The Dwarf cocked his head to the side.

Helm nearly chuckled and his mind drifted. He saw his past flash before him once again. He stood upon snow capped mountains, lush jungles, fertile plains. Always before him were cities of stone, wood, and metal, and always above him a different star burned and gave life giving light and warmth to the world. He stood before people as they looked up at him, awe and amazement in their eyes as he fashioned a bow with his hands. A spear, a hammer. Other times it was a spell. One to shape the earth or to heal the sick.

Words like Sanctuary, Gaia, and others echoed through his mind as his visions changed, and eternity flowed by him in an instant as he watched and guided the civilizations from the cradle of their infancy until they spanned whole continents and their might was unequaled.

But always, as he had watched, they had grown to a point, and then, right around the age where they should have begun to leap forward into an industrial revolution… it stopped. Magic would advance, certainly, but technology would stagnate. It only made sense, he had come to realize. Magic was quick, it was easy in many ways. Why figure out how to build a damn large enough to block a major river, why try to develop materials and metals strong enough to hold such a gargantuan structure up, when you could simply pay a wizard to alter its course?

As the eons had passed, he had finally understood that if the Human race was ever to attain what it had lost, to become what it had once been, and then to grow ever further, that one of his civilizations would have to be kept pure, clean of all but the barest hints of the arcane.

Once they had reached a certain point where their technology had made them self sufficient, they could be left to their own devices, until they were at last ready to meet their brethren from across the stars. And so he had weaned one such civilization, born on the planet where Diana had died.

And as they had matured and needed him less and less, so he had withdrawn.

The last time he had visited was nearly a half century ago, when they had begun to expand further and further out, towards inevitable contact with other races that remembered well the legacy of his people.

Helm turned angrily away from Moradin, and fought the urge to punch the wall of his sparring room. He had spent too much time away from those he had once helped save, had not seen how they had changed, how their leaders had twisted their original paths and made them a mockery of their former selves. It was a fool's error, something that only an idiot would have made.

And yet, as before he had slipped up, miscalculated, and as before an entire civilization of his people had nearly been wiped out. The eyes behind the armet narrowed and began to glow. There would be no third mistake.

"I'm sorry, Moradin," Helm said, turning back around to face the Dwarf. "I just feel overwhelmed at times, like the universe is trying to tear itself to pieces around me."

"Your job is not an easy one, Guardian," Moradin walked up to his comrade and clapped a hand upon his upper arm. "There are no gods, I think, that envy your position, to have to protect so much, for so little thanks in return." The Dwarf smiled in sympathy. "You do what no one else can, or will, in your efforts to keep Torril safe. For that, and so much more, you have my thanks, and know that I will always stand by your side."

Helm nodded. "Thank you, old friend."

"Wouldn't be much of a Dwarf if I wasn't a good friend, or a good pep talker," Moradin said with a chuckle, and thumped his elbow into Helm's gut.

The Human god laughed softly and shook his head. "True. I'll see you when the time comes."

"Indeed. I'm going to look forward to watching that spider bitch get her face smashed in…" he thumped his fist into his palm hard enough that the air around them rippled.

With that, the Dwarven deity disappeared. Helm sighed again, and looked up. Where were the others, he wondered? Where were Beowulf, Heracles, Cocles and the others? Where were Diana and his children? Did they watch him from some other plane of existence? Did they understand how hard he was trying to make things right again? To make whole the wounds he had slashed open with his selfishness? His thoughts drifted to his wife, of all the memories that they had shared in the millennia that they had spent together. He slumped down to his knees, his armor suddenly feeling as if it had the weight of a whole planet behind it.

Helm managed to catch himself, his arms shaking as rage and grief welled up inside of him. It boiled over and he could contain it no longer. He reached back and slammed his fist into the stone. It shattered as if hit by a bomb, pinging off of the metal of his armor and the shaped rock of the wall.

He would make it right. He swore. Humanity would rise again. The alliance of the Hall would be the first of many, and before it was over, there would be an Empire that would span the stars of the galaxies. No matter what obstacle lay in their path, the Abyss, the Hells, or all the gods of the Dark Pantheons of the universe. They would become what they once were.

He felt a touch on his shoulder, a touch he recognized instantly. He turned and looked back. A pale hand, partially covered in a black, open fingered glove, contrasted against his armor. He followed the hand backwards until it disappeared into a uniformed sleeve, splotched varying shades of gray and black. Behind the man were dozens more, hundreds more, that had all filtered into the room as silently as wraiths. They stood with their hands clasped behind their backs and their eyes straight forward. Slowly, Helm rose and turned to face them. An unseen smile formed on his face and he felt his resolve renewed as he stared out at the group.

"Ready for another practice round, I see."

"As always, Sir," the soldier said. "Semper Vigilantus et Semper Accingere."

* * *

Lolth paced back and forth within the darkness of her fortress. She was in her Elven form, but her unearthly beauty was marred by the twisted snarl that seemed forever set in her face these days. Within the Goddess' mind plots and schemes boiled and frothed, twisting and turning back and forth as she fathomed how she might proceed next with her campaign. It had started off so well, and the Dwarves of clan Battlehammer routed with hardly a drop of Drow blood being spilled. The defenders, meanwhile, had bathed the blades of her servants dark with their life essence. She had watched from her fortress and grown nearly drunk upon the carnage and the slaughter, and more still, the slow, torturous demises of the hairy little runts as they had been interrogated.

The many centuries of inter house warfare had made it to where her servants and priestesses were extremely good at the job that they did. She had laughed and cried out like a young child as she watched them flay flesh to the bone, or slowly saw off a finger, a hand, a leg; watched as they would create a thousand tiny cuts in a victim or take off the ears, nose, or put out the eyes.

The Dwarves had been hearty folk, putting up with the abuse for days. But at last, one by one, they had begun to spill the secrets of the Hall. Defenses, traps, resource locations and how quickly it would take for the clan to begin to respond.

With the deals with Luskan complete, and the underground alliances, she had her staging point to begin launching the conquest of the surface. Once the northern areas of Faerun had been secured, she would turn her eyes southward, making alliances with the other dark gods in so much as they would cooperate with her. One by one, the petty, divided nations of men, Dwarves, and surface Elves would fall before her people, and they would become the ruler of all.

Then the Troubles had begun. With one foolish move, Bane had ruined everything. Normally a being that reveled in chaos, the dark goddess had raged for days as she had been reduced to that of a powerful, but still vulnerable mortal. Forced to rely on her priestesses for aid, and feeling fear for the first time in her immortal life. The fear of a heartbeat, knowing that it could stop at any potential moment. The fear of aches and weariness of the body. The fear of hunger and thirst… and the fear that her plans would be dashed to ruins because one single deity got too big for himself far too soon. Ao's rage had been tremendous, and had spared only one.

Lolth felt a vile taste well up in her mouth. Helm. She knew that she had not been the only deity to cast a hateful glance towards the armored God of Guardians as she and the others had been dumped unceremoniously at his feet and Ao's voice raged above them all as He told them of the crime of Bane, and how they were all going to be punished for it.

Almost as bad had been Moradin. The Dwarf had stared at her with such smoldering fury in his eyes that Lolth had half expected him to be audacious enough to take advantage of the Troubles and assault Menzoberranzan with the purpose of killing her. While no harm had befallen her, and her servants and slaves seen to her every need and whim during the time of weakness, once her tablets had been retrieved and she had approached the Staircase with the intent of getting her divinity back, she learned of Bhaal, of Bane, of Mrykell and all the other gods that had fallen to the hands of mortals. More unnerving still had been Helm's fiery gaze and the corpse of Myria at his feet as he stood to judge her.

Both he and Moradin would have to be punished, she thought, as she abruptly turned in her pacing, breaking her stride. But how best to do that, she wondered, bringing a hand up to her chin. The Dwarf would be easy enough to strike a blow at. Retaking the Hall would suffice, and then… and then Bruenor, yes, yes, that would work well. Him and that Human daughter of his. She would have both of their hearts torn from their chests to adorn the walls of her throne. That would do nicely.

Helm was somewhat trickier, but wrecking a few of his temples would infuriate him to no end, she suspected. Of course, there was one other way to strike a blow straight at the god's heart, and she knew just what to do to pull that off.

Even as she thought about it, the smell of sulfur and rot reached her nose. She turned and saw a portal opening. Through it stepped a creature, fifteen feet tall, sporting bat like wings and a bestial canine-esque face, the creature radiated power. Powerful though Erttu was, Lolth knew that he was no match for her, so his massive height and his entrance did nothing to intimidate her as it might a lesser being. The dark goddess' face broke out into a wicked smile as she looked at the object that the mighty Balor held between his hands. It was a glowing sphere, set into a pedestal.

"Excellent," she whispered. "It works then?"

"Perfectly," Erttu rumbled. He spread his wings out and bowed low before her, placing it upon the floor. As he did, it began to shine brightly. When the flash cleared, Lolth could see perfectly into the depths of the sphere. Before her, bound by seal and sigil, was Demogorgon. The Demon Prince's four eyes settled upon her, power equaling her own washing over her. Both of his mouth's opened, and the heads spoke in eerie coordination with one another.

"We have thought of your offer, Lolth, thought long and well, and we will accept. Deliver our freedom to us, and ally ourselves in your cause we shall."

"Words cannot express my thanks to you, Prince of the Abyss," she purred, smiling and bowing slightly towards the mighty creature. "But my deeds may yet prove my gratitude. Your forces shall have half of all the arcane artifacts that are gathered, and gain power, slaves, and territory to use in the Blood War. The Devils will not be able to fight you near so well with such a disadvantage to them.

The Demon Prince licked his twin lips. The thoughts of such carnage and chaos, such bloodshed and suffering, would be like a sweet wine to the trapped soul within Watcher's Keep.

"When shall we be freed?" Demogorgon asked.

"As soon as the key to your locks and chains is found and the proper rituals conducted. Worry not, powerful one," Lolth said, walking up closer to the sphere, "we know where the key is already. Retrieving it will be a simple matter.

The Demon Prince roared in triumph and glee. Already he had been trapped for too long. Soon, soon he would unleash all his wrath and fury upon the arrogant god that had dared to imprison him here. He would launch all of his forces at Helm's celestial fortress, and now power would withstand him, no other God dare to come to the aid of the 'Vigilant One.' He would devour the wretched god's soul as Helm begged and pleaded for mercy, consume Helm's power and then mount an assault upon the Hells.

His loud, grating laughter joined Lolth's as the thoughts of victory rushed through his mind like the sweetest of dreams.

* * *

Within the depths of Mithril Hall, the crowds had long since dispersed and gone their separate ways. As he walked along the smooth floor, Drizzt Do'Urden let his hand reach out and brush against the hewn stone of the wall. How carefully had the Dwarves of times past carved out these tunnels? How did it feel to know that they had tamed it, worked it into a thing of beauty and pragmatism?

He looked over to his side. Dove walked a half pace behind him, with Guenhwyvar pacing alongside her, occasionally brushing up against the girl's leg. There was much going through her mind as well, he realized, and he wondered what it could be. Dove chewed upon her lip, and her eyes were upon the floor, but beyond that, Drizzt could not read her. She had always been good at hiding her thoughts and feelings when she had wanted to. He had learned that well in the two decades he had known her. She had been the one that had led the ranger party that had tried to track him down when they still believed him a threat to the surface world. And, as he had come to learn, the one that had realized he was a friend rather than a foe.

She looked up for a brief moment, and smiled at him, before dropping her gaze back down and retreating further into her cloak. A breeze of fresh air hit Drizzt's face as he drew nearer and nearer to the surface of the Hall.

There was still a flurry of activity going on around the entrance-way. Commander Keyes had insisted upon having a secondary defensive line inside the main doors in case the exterior lines fell. It was a tactic that he heartily agreed with, but he was still somewhat unnerved by her idea of hardening. A pair of heavy machine guns and a single, thirty millimeter cannon lay surrounded by armored barricades and bags filled with sand. Next to them were a few racks of UNSC weaponry and ammunition for them. The Ranger walked over towards the nearest one, filled with assault rifles, and felt a pang of bitterness rise up inside of him.

He had come to understand the necessity of these weapons. Without the firepower of Keyes and her allies, there would be no way to hold back the massive tide that his people would bring to bear. But at the same time, the sheer bloodshed they were capable of made him wary of them. What would happen after this battle? What would become of the weapons? Suppose, even if defeated, that some of his people managed to capture a handful of them, and learn how to make them?

The Dark Elf shuddered at the thought. His people would become unstoppable.

"Are you okay?"

He turned to see Dove standing there, a look of concern upon her face. Drizzt simply nodded and smiled towards her, before turning and heading out towards the open air. The cool night breeze, a whispered promise that the all too brief summer would be leaving soon, made him want to stretch out his arms and bask in it, as he had basked in the sun in those first few days on the surface to try and adjust to the light and heat.

As he looked out to the hills and valleys, he wondered how long it would be before they were bathed with the blood of his people. His hands drifted down to his twin scimitars, and he felt the Hunter try and rise within himself. Drizzt quickly squashed the urge. He would use his weapons to defend, not slaughter for the sake of it.

He kept repeating that thought over and over again in his head, the message and mantra that he had so desperately clung to in his efforts to remain distant from the curse that had claimed his people.

He felt Dove's hand fall on his arm, and he looked over to her. She smiled up at him yet again, and for a moment, he forgot his troubles.

"So," she asked, looking out over the pits, trenches, barricades, and other defenses, "when this is all over, you still up for that tour of the city that I offered you."

The Dark Elf chuckled softly. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

* * *

Wulfgar was out as well, surveying the anvil upon which the Drow surface forces would have to be beaten. The enormous Barbarian was not alone as he stared at the battlefield. Revajik was by his side, and Lord Nasher as well.

"So few, to hold back so many," the Lord of Neverwinter said with a sigh. "May the Gods smile on high and grant us strength in this hour."

"I suspect they will," Wulfgar said. "They have smiled upon us much in the past months. Our mysterious friends from the stars have made many things possible." He rubbed his hand over the hilt of Aegis-Fang. "With them, if nothing else, we will make the Drow pay for every inch of ground they wish to claim."

"No doubt," Nasher said, looking over to the young warrior, "but your people have more to lose than any other. Your women and your children will be depending upon the few warriors and hunters that you have left." He sighed. "You should not have so many of your own people here."

Revajik chuckled, and the white haired Plainsman walked over to Nasher. Lord and Chieftain looked upon each other as equals. "We are brothers in the same cause, Lord Nasher," he said. "Our women are hardy, our children made strong by the wilds of Icewind Dale. Regardless of what happens to us, they will survive. And what would our children think, I ask you?" a deep laugh that came from the Chieftain's belly echoed through the night. "When the bards and minstrels sing of the defense of Mithril Hall, we would have ourselves be a verse, not merely a passing line!"

Wulfgar smiled and nodded his head in agreement with his friend. Too much pride could destroy a man. Drizzt had hammered that into his brain in a very literal fashion during the first few days of his training. It led to hubris, arrogance, the refusal to see any path but one's own. But there was a time where a line had to be drawn in the ground. A time where one would retreat no further. For the Tribe of the Elk, this was where that line was.

His people would sooner die than be slaves to such cruel taskmasters at any rate, and while he tried to keep his confidence up, there was a small part of Wulfgar that knew that if they failed here, and the Drow swept over the land, that the dead would be the lucky ones. He could not even begin to imagine the horrors that would await the ones sent to the Underdark to be worked to death, or worse, become some sort of object for torture or experimentation for a Dark Elf wizard.

The Plainsman's blue eyes became as icy as the Tundra that he hailed from. Though death's chill fingers might take his soul in the coming days, he resolved to take as many Goblinoids, Orcs, and Drow with him as he could. A bit of pride swelled within his chest as he thought that if he were to die, he would make himself a legend in the eyes of the enemy. They would whisper horror stories to their children of the crazed giant that had stormed amongst them, crushing any who dared draw near. Yes. Yes, what better way to die, than to become a living symbol of fear for those who sought to enslave your people?

* * *

Within the depths of Mithril Hall, Cortana was at work. There was nothing new about that. Being a computer, she had no need for sleep, for food, or for drink. Her mind performed countless actions as she multitasked, reading through and studying all the tomes of magic that she had scanned. Joy was leaping in her mind as she realized all the things she could do with this, all the applications that happened when one mixed technology with this new arcane science. Such as one spell that she was trying now. She had attempted it before, but never on something this large, never with this purpose.

The construct applied her will, focusing her mental abilities as she drew the words from the spells to mind. She monitored the EM frequencies, and there was a spike that lasted for the appropriate period of time. She activated a pair of robotic arms, and began moving them around the room that she was practicing in. The first one grabbed the target of the spell, a UNSC standard issue rucksack, and opened it up. The second one grabbed a thirty millimeter cannon and brought it over to the table that she'd been working on. Ever so carefully, she placed the back end of the cannon into the open mouth of the rucksack, and lowered it.

One foot of the cannon disappeared, then two feet, three, and on until it was completely enveloped. As she had hoped, there was not a single sign of bulging, stretching, or straining on the material of the sack.

"Yes!" she cheered to herself. But she quickly remembered that the experiment was not over yet.

She let go of the cannon, and it just seemed to disappear without a trace. Next, she grabbed a sensor probe, and inserted it. As the signals began to feed back to her, Cotana knew that she had succeeded in most of her objectives. The cannon was in sight, resting comfortably in the dimensional sub-pocket that she had created inside of the bag. Inside was an area the size of one of the armories on the Dawn, waiting to accept more contents.

A third arm was lowered in, and the A.I. thought about the cannon, willing it to come towards her. It almost flew up into the grip of the manipulator. Another success. Just two more things to test. Well, one more actually. The readings that she was getting on the bag indicated no increase in weight or mass since she had inserted the thirty.

A fourth arm grabbed a Helljumper toothpick, and quickly lashed out with it. A number of strikes, slashes, and stabs were applied to the rucksack, but damage was minimal.

If she'd had hands at the moment, Cortana would have rubbed them together in glee. Her experiment had worked. The Bag of Holding was ready, and improved over the traditional one that she had read about in the tomes. More tear resistant than the standard Faerunian one thanks to its construction material, and able to hold many times as much, all with no increase to weight.

Equipped with something like this, a single trooper could carry and field an amount of firepower usually issued to an entire battalion of soldiers.

John and Sergeant Johnson were going to love her for this. But there was no time to celebrate, there was so much left that she had to do, so much still to be done. Her eyes fell to other weapons that were present, and her consciousness literally boiled with different ideas, applications, and the like.

Her eyes also drifted to a large pile of scrap metal in one corner, material salvaged from the interior of the Dawn and the Covenant scouting craft.

The manipulators exploded into action as Cortana began to gather up more rucksacks and she spun off a number of subroutines to try and think of new applications while she still had the time.

* * *

The Master Chief looked at the equipment before him, various pieces to a BR-55 taken apart and spread on a soft cloth. He examined every part, oiled the parts that needed them, configured the sights and scope, adjusted the mounting rails, and checked to make certain that all electronic systems were still operating perfectly. Once he was finished, he quickly reassembled the rifle and slapped a mag of shredder rounds into the weapon. He chambered a round, flicked the safety on, and then attached a GDS to it.

Similar maintenance to his ASG-60 followed, before a scope, range finder backup, tactical grip and a few other pieces of kit. Once he was finished with both weapons, he placed them onto the back plate of his armor, and strapped a pistol to his hip. It was soon to be his turn at patrolling, and he wanted to be prepared, just in case the Drow found some way to magick themselves past the array of sensors that protected the Hall. He wasn't certain how likely it was, but the idea of small groups acting as suicide squads was not out of the realm of possibility.

"Heading out," he announced to Cortana over the comlink. "Will report in at five minute intervals."

"Roger that, I'll be monitoring your progress in the meanwhile." The construct's voice was full of something that the Chief couldn't quite place, somewhere between elation, agitation, and analytical critiquing. She had to be working on something. He briefly wondered what.

The Spartan drew his ASG, and he headed out of the armory and down towards the bowels of the Hall. If nothing else, this would help him to become still better equated with the layout of the Dwarven fortress. When the attack came, he was to be busy helping out the defenders in the underground areas. He wouldn't have time to keep looking around on a map trying to locate the fastest way to reach his opponents. Besides, he could also personally identify points of cover, places of ambush, and things of that nature.

As he moved through the compound, calling in at the appropriate times, the tunnels and well-carved corridors gradually began to give way to roughly hewn rock that bore the scars of mining. There were a handful of Dwarves still out here, trying to harvest some last minute supplies of mithril for forging into armor or weapons, or, if they were defeated in driven out, to ensure that there was that much less available for the Drow and their allies to make use of.

It was hard to tell the difference between the Battlehammer and the Iron-Fists, and the two clans mixed freely with one another. They told jokes, laughed to one another, sang songs of their ancestry and past kings. They were like different sides of a family together for one giant reunion, the Spartan thought to himself. Some took notice of him as he passed, saluting in Dwarven fashion, nodding their heads, or simply cheering.

They saw him as a hero, John mused to himself. He frowned softly behind his helmet as he continued his patrol. It wasn't the first time that he or his brothers and sisters had been given that title. The dress uniform of each of the Spartans reflected this, as did their Combat Service Vitae. He never much cared for the metals, pins, ribbons, and other accolades of honor that were bequeathed to him and his unit.

He was no hero. He was soldier, a trained killer who simply happened to be exceedingly good at his job.

"Shore that buttress up, and make certain that the runes are properly placed!" he heard a voice bark. It was a voice that he recognized. As he rounded the corner in the tunnel, he came upon the sight of Bruenor.

The Dwarf wore his golden armor, and was holding a map in one hand. A number of Dwarven engineers were around him, applying carefully crafted runes to the support buttress of a large junction in the mine. In the event the defenses were overrun in this sector, a command word would be shouted, and the runes would detonate, bringing the tunnel down and blocking access further up the mines.

Looking up, Bruenor saw the Master Chief approaching. John shifted his assault weapon, and brought his hand up in salute as he approached the king. The Dwarf returned it, and then smiled. At least, the Spartan thought he did. The beard made it somewhat difficult to read Bruenor's face at times.

The Master Chief briefly wondered how much time was left before the Drow arrived. Every moment they delayed was another advantage for him and his allies, true, but there was a primal part of his mind that longed for the familiarity of a battlefield.

"Out on patrol?" Bruenor asked.

"Yes, your majesty," the cyborg said. "I'm heading down to the lower levels to scope things out. After that, there are some more chapters in the books Helm gave us that I need to convert to memory."

"Olthick, think you can handle this?" Bruenor asked, looking over to his bodyguard.

"Aye, Milord," the other Dwarf nodded.

Bruenor handed things off, and then fell in beside the Spartan. The cyborg looked over and down at the small humanoid next to him. It was almost comical, in some strange way to see the two of them walking alongside, one so small and the other so large.

"I want to thank you again, for everything you've done for us," the Dwarf said suddenly, looking up at the Spartan.

John mulled over a response for a few moments. He was used to receiving gratitude from grateful civilians or fellow military personnel that he saved, even if that gratitude was all too often tempered with grief over the loss of their homes, friends, and family. There was something different about this though. Something that the Spartan couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Thanks aren't necessary. I know what it's like to be forced back by an enemy again and again," he let the sentence drop there. John suddenly felt as if he were moving further and further away from the tunnels of the Hall, back to the UNSC and the space it controlled. Again and again they were driven back by the invincible Covenant juggernaut. Every victory made meaningless by a glassing operation. Where did one draw the lines? Where did one say "This far, no further." Where did you cast aside retreat as a viable option and simply hold until either you died or your enemy gave up?

Something occurred to him then, and the cyborg realized that he didn't know where Bruenor was going to be during the battle.

"Where are you going to be stationed, my lord?" he asked, looking over and down at the Dwarf.

Bruenor stared up at him, and raised a bushy eyebrow. "What do you mean, asking a question like that?" he snorted. "I plan to be down there with the rest of me kin, slugging it out and fighting for my home."

The Spartan frowned behind his helmet. He had been afraid of that. He knew that in the medieval way of combat, that the lords and kings had usually been among the most skilled warriors on the battlefield, due to their near constant training, and that made decapitating the command structure of an army somewhat difficult. But it still worried him. One mage in the right place, one arrow at the wrong time, and Bruenor would be out of the fight permanently.

The Spartan wished he could be there to protect him. Unfortunately, the battle plan called for him to operate with Pwent, Johnson, and a few of the Harpell magi to function as an elite hunter-killer unit searching for commanders and captains within the Drow army.

Still, the Master Chief remembered that Orna had requested to be stationed with the King, something that the Dwarf had allowed. The Sangheili would protect Bruenor with his life, if nothing else. The Spartan realized that Bruenor was still looking at him, and he cocked his head slightly.

"My apologies, my Lord, I was simply concerned," he said.

Bruenor smiled, reached up, and thumped the cyborg in his arm. "Don't worry about it, Son, ye meant no harm by it." Then the Dwarf sighed. "I know why you're concerned about it. But this is one fight where the Dwarves of my clan need to know that I'm in there with them. Slugging it out in the thick of it. Me Father's father gave his life to defend these halls, and I would dishonor his memory by not being willing to put myself in the same position."

"The Drow will try to kill you specifically, they will single you out. I'm worried about what it might do to your comrades."

Bruenor began to laugh so hard that he nearly doubled over from it. He placed a gauntleted hand out against the walls of the cave, while the Spartan raised an eyebrow behind his helmet. Wheezing softly, Bruenor looked back up at him, his eyes glistening slightly from how hard he'd been laughing.

"Master Chief," he said, laughing slightly again, "pray that we are so fortunate. Nothing gets the blood boiling in a Dwarf like standing amongst the bodies of his slain kin and knowing that the murderer is within reach of an axe. And a Dwarven King? The Drow'll think the Gods themselves had descended to strike them down if they should slay me." Then his face grew serious, and the laughter died in his eyes. "I fear capture more than death. The Drow have means of extracting formation that make the Luskans look pleasant. Poisons, magic, and more demonic curses that I can shake me axe at. Once they get their hands on you… it's a matter of when you break, not if. That, Spartan, is the one prospect of this battle that terrifies me. Getting dragged back down to their foul cities to spend the rest of my life in those dungeons of theirs." The Master Chief watched as a shudder actually wracked the body of the Dwarf. "They'd force me to give up everything I know about the Hall. Every secret, every artifact. Then they'd use it against everyone, every last man woman an' child on the surface."

The Master Chief looked down and cocked his head to one side. He understood Bruenor's fear quite well. It was one of his own, one that his Spartans had faced. He and Captain Keyes had spoken briefly on the first Halo ring they'd found, right after he'd freed him from the Truth and Reconciliation. Covenant interrogation tactics were ruthlessly efficient, and the Spartan had long feared the consequences of him or one of his brothers and sisters falling into enemy hands. He had always had a solution for that, he wasn't certain how well Bruenor would react to it, but it might ease the King's spirits a bit.

He reached up and plucked a frag grenade off of his bandoleer, before handing it over to the Dwarf.

"Here," he said, as the Dwarf took it and stared at it curiously. "Hopefully you won't need it, but keep it, just in case."

"What for?"

"Often times, in the wars of my people, when capture and torture seemed imminent, soldiers would arm their grenades and charge the enemy lines. It's called a kamikaze rush, you effectively silence yourself, and with luck, you take a few of the enemy with you."

Bruenor looked down at the grenade, and seemed to be wrestling with himself over whether to accept it or not. At last, the Dwarven King nodded and stuffed the grenade into one of his pouches.

"Thank you," he said. "I don't plan on dying if I can help it, but it's nice to know that even if they get their hands on me, they'll be in for a nasty farewell present."

The Master Chief merely nodded, and the two continued along the patrol route. Bruenor spoke of the glories of his people in their past, while occasionally pausing to ask the inquisitive question about what life in the UNSC was like, and what some of the wonders of the Milky Way were.

All throughout the Hall, stories were swapped, jokes told, promises made. For all there new that battle would soon be joined.

* * *

Well, there it is. I hope these two chapters were okay, or at least not train wrecks. I once again apologize to anyone who was… unsettled, by certain incidents in the last chapter. Like I said, feedback is always welcomed, especially constructive criticism. Despite my (hopefully) budding legal career, I still have dreams of one day becoming a published author, and there's only one way to get better.

I wish you all a good day, wherever you are. Please stay safe.

As a final note before I sign off for this update, I would like to direct anyone who hasn't stumbled across or otherwise checked out a very good story here on Fanfiction . net. That would be Peptuck's "Command and Conquer: Tiberium Wars" story. While still a work in progress, the story is one of, if not the, best that I have ever read (putting the original Tib Wars novelization to absolute shame), and the guy more than makes me look like a spastic amateur without the slightest idea of what I'm doing. So please give it a look, you won't regret it.


	27. Chapter 26: Reckoning of Ages

Hello again everyone. Sorry again for the delay, been meaning to put this sucker up for a week now, but I ran into a complication regarding my attempts to be seated for the MPRE ethics test I need to take to become a certified lawyer (Yes, we do have to take an ethics test to practice law. I eagerly await the barrage of lawyer jokes to follow this statement). I've got the kinks worked out for the most part, so hopefully I can get back to my classes and usual update routines without further interruption.

At any rate, it was good to hear from you all, and I hope I was able to answer questions and give good feedback. To those of you I was unable to PM directly, like Shloop and Halcyon, it was good to hear from you guys, and thanks so much for your time and encouragement. I hope I can continue to please with this chapter. I'll admit, I'm more nervous than I usually am, this being the start of what will be several chapters of combat. Hopefully, I can keep it up to standard, but please let me know if I start slipping on the quality. You guys deserve the best that I can give you.

Thanks again to you all, and I hope you enjoy the next chapter of Finishing the Fight.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Seven- Reckoning of Ages**

Jarlaxle frowned as he marched at the front of his group. They were not far from the Hall, he knew that. He remembered this route well, both from when they had first assaulted the Dwarven stronghold, and from when they'd been chased from it. There was a feeling that was gnawing away at his gut, as if he was walking towards his death, and the death of the men and women that were under his command. Ordinarily, the Drow mercenary captain would have had no part of this endeavor. He had faced the forces of these strange offworlders once before, and that one time had been more than sufficient. Luck was all that had saved him last time. Another second's worth of hesitation on his part, and the strange weapon of the green armored beast would have blown him to pieces.

However, he wasn't exactly being given a choice in the matter. If Matron Baenre had thought for one moment that he would be defiant and refuse to go, she'd have had him and every member of his troupe rounded up and put to death in the most unpleasant fashion she could think of. Being more than two thousand years old, the Matron had become _very_ creative in that regard.

Even with that knowledge, Jarlaxle could not stop thinking about what he had witnessed during the massacre. Worse, now that thing and its allies had been given the chance to dig in and prepare for a counter assault. Jarlaxle fought the urge to shudder. His frown alone might have been too much of a sign of what was going on in his head, and it might alert a cleric to his dissident thoughts.

A moment later he berated himself for his cowardly skulking. A voice within his mind mocked him. Where was the Jarlaxle that just a few weeks ago would have walked with swagger and a straight back? Where was the man who was so confident and cunning, the man with resources and power that even the Matrons dared not to cross him?

Of course, it didn't help in the slightest that that insufferable whelp, Berg'yiron, was a scant dozen paces away. The smile on the young Baenre's face was sickening, and the mercenary knew why it was there. Berg'yiron had trained together with Drizzt during the renegade's time at _Melee Magarth_, the school of fighters for the noble Drow. Only the renegade Dark Elf had ever been able to match and surpass the young Baenre's prowess, and in doing so, Drizzt stole from the prince the title that he rightfully viewed as his.

Berg'yiron was obviously looking forward to paying back years of humiliation at the hands of the renegade. Given that he was to lead House Baerne's elite group of lizard riders into the very heart of the Dwarven fortress, it seemed likely to occur. Jarlaxle briefly wondered what sort of tricks might be up the sleeve of the young captain. Berg'yiron was known for fighting dirty, even by Dark Elven standards.

Unknown to the Drow mercenary was that he had just passed over a small spot of normally unassuming rock. It was flat, smooth like the rest of the cavern floor he was in, but it's appearance was deceptive. About six feet down, surrounded by stone, was a UNSC remote sensor. The small device picked up his movements, and those of the ranks behind him, then the slaves of the massive army. It began to transmit the data back to its primary receiver, many miles distant.

Others soon began to do the same, and within minutes, combat forces were being awoken, stim packs administered and weapons issued. Machine guns were armed and autocannons brought fully online. The defenders of Mithril Hall would not be caught unawares.

Jarlaxle did not yet know it, but he was soon to be in for the fight of his life.

* * *

"Mobilize! Mobilize!" Commander Tarkimee shouted to his troops as they rushed about in a state of organized chaos. Long-range sensors had detected the approaching army of the Dark Elves and their slaves. Though they had many hours yet to prepare, the sooner his troops got into their positions, the sooner the welcoming mat could be made ready.

The Sangheili officer had spent the past several days reviewing various files that the UNSC A.I. had prepared for him and his soldiers in an attempt to understand his enemy. Force projections for the Drow encompassed not only huge numbers, but a wide variety of species that were likely to make appearances as well. Everything from the mundane troops such as Orcs, Gray Dwarves, Kobolds, Goblins and Gnolls, to the more exotic troops such as the insidious Mind Flayers-tentacle faced beings that were powerful psionics with a taste for the brains of living creatures-to huge flying beasts known as Dragons.

Tarkimee doubted that the latter would be much of a problem for his group, as the confines of the tunnels would make such a large creature an easy target for the advanced weaponry his troops carried, but any of the ones that attacked outside would be slightly more problematic to deal with. He wasn't sure how their magic infused scales would stand up to UNSC heavy machine guns, but the wings were supposed to be a weak point. Aim for the membranes, shred them, force the creature down onto the ground and from there, dispatch it.

Mind Flayers might be slightly more problematic, but his troops had been issued sealed helmets and NBC grade undersuits. If those tentacled freaks wanted to make a meal out of the brains of his soldiers, they were going to have to work for it.

The Elite watched as the last of his soldiers kitted themselves up, and they stood at the ready before him. The Commander paused for a moment, and belted one of Cortana's 'bags of holding' to his hip. He reached into it, and pulled out a long armed plasma rifle. Then he let his gaze roam over his troops. From the Sangheili, to the Unggoy, to the mighty Lek'golos.

"Night comes, my brothers," he said to them, moving his head from side to side. "And with it, comes battle. This will be a battle long remembered, and whether we live or die tonight matters not. For all of us will have our deeds remembered as they are woven into the battle poems of our families. This will be the day where we stood up in acknowledgement of our sullied honor, where we refused to wallow in self pity and despair. This will be the night where we renewed our pledges to the Forerunners, and to their children." He paused, picking up his helmet and sliding it down over his head, hiding his face behind an implacable mask. "This will be the day where we vindicated ourselves, and made whole the oaths that we have taken!"

The cavern shook with the roars of his united forces. Fists were pumped, weapons pointed towards the room, and the sounds of song and battle poems mixed in a cacophonous, haunting melody.

The scarred commander spread his mandibles wide behind his helmet. These were his troops. They had served with him for most of their careers. They feared neither death nor pain, only failure. The Dark Elves would know terror as they faced these soldiers, know the fear that the Neo-Covenant military could bring. The Elite vowed that once this battle was through, that it would be decades, centuries, perhaps, before the black skinned dogs would dare venture to the surface again.

Of in the distance, Tarkimee saw the Master Chief and Sergeant Major Johnson looking over a map as they prepped their weaponry and secured their own bags. He suddenly thought back to the day that he had received his scars. If the Spartan fought this night as he had on that day, then the Drow would learn a whole new meaning to the word fear. Tales would be told to their children of the green giant, the relentless killer that never stopped, never tired, and slaughtered without hesitation.

The Sangheili had seen firsthand how rumors of the prowess of Spartans could perpetuate through the ranks, and their mere presence cause a major break down in discipline. For once, that physiological edge would be on his side.

The Commander reached into his rucksack, and pulled out a plasma SMG with an extended powercell, attached it to his thigh and then followed his dispersing troops towards his combat station.

* * *

Neeshka let out a sigh as she sheathed her blades and threw the strap to a carbine over her shoulder. Over the past weeks, she had learned to be very good at shooting the small weapon, and had personally requested to be able to carry one of them into battle. Keyes had granted her request, and given her several magazines of ammunition. Most of them were shredder or incendiary rounds, but she had two mags of armor piercing, just in case she ran into something particularly nasty.

The Tiefling then made her way over towards the group that she would be running with. Well, running wasn't quite the proper term. She was to help hold a key defensive position within the myriad of tunnels, an ingress point into the lower forges. She was fairly certain that it wouldn't be easy, but then again, holding Crossroad Keep hadn't been easy either.

Neeshka's eyes narrowed to a glare. The images of the destroyed village ran through her mind. She remembered the men, women, children, and elders that had been remorselessly cut down before the onslaught of the Drow raiders. Rage filled her, and she drew on that rage and the power that came with it. The Tiefling had seen much bloodshed within her short lifetime, but she had never taken pleasure in it. This evening, no matter how distanced she tried to make herself, the Tiefling knew in her heart that every time she twisted her blades into the heart of a Dark Elf, or shattered their skulls with a bullet, that she would take a grim pleasure in one less of them being upon this world. It would be one fewer Drow to torture, kill, or murder an innocent. She would just have to be careful not lose herself in a berserker like rage.

"You ready to have at it, Goat-Girl?"

She turned to see Khelgar there. The Dwarven monk was dressed in his battle armor, recently outfitted with spikes and razors to complement his hand-to-hand combat knowledge. Khelgar also had an urgosh strapped across his back, and it was clear that he was eager for battle once again. Neeshka looked into his eyes, and remembered how much he had changed over the time that she had known him. No longer did the Dwarf lust to fight simply for the sake of fighting. He had returned to his Dwarven roots, and sought to protect others with his abilities.

His hands went up to the double sided pendant that was around his neck. The symbol of Tyr on one side, Moradin on the other. A moment of somberness passed over his face, before he tried to hide it behind his beard once again.

Neeshka nodded her head. "As always, barrel head. I plan on teaching the Drow a few things about sneaking around where you're not wanted."

Khelgar broke out laughing as the two of them made their way towards their station.

* * *

The hours passed, and the final defenses made ready. One by one, the defenders of Mithril Hall finished their preparations. Prayers were said, oaths whispered under the breath, weapons readied and last minute gestures of friendship exchanged.

Then there was silence. The calm before the storm as those with access to sensor readouts watched the Drow forces draw closer and closer to the Hall.

From within the central computer mainframes, Cortana watched as the horde came nearer and nearer to the first line of defenses. Through sensors mounted in the caverns, she got her first good look at the enemy army. It was as expected. A few Drow scouts were out in front, followed by the unending tide of slaves that would compose the bulk of the army. They began to split up, one group heading for the surface, the other towards the tunnels.

Closer. Closer. The minutes ticked by, eternity and lifetimes for a computer such as herself. They were almost upon the first line of defense, and soon it would be time to unleash hell.

The army entered a large cavern some minutes later. It was approximately half a kilometer in diameter, and could fit a significant amount of the Drow forces into it. Cortana slowly began lining up one of the fifty-millimeter guns, moving it so quietly that the noise would not betray its position and startle the scouts or the slaves.

Very soon the room was filled with the optimum level of enemy troops to warrant counter action. The A.I. construct smiled viciously to herself.

"Commander, requesting permission to engage enemy forces," she announced over the command channel.

"Permission granted, fire at will, Cortana."

The Construct had already begun when she'd heard "granted," and sent the signals that would begin the battle.

The first round fired, leaving a bright blue trail as it streaked out from the gun that had fired. From the multitude of sensor feedbacks, Cortana watched as the initial line of scouts, followed by the troops behind them, all the way back to the tunnel entrance, simply ceased to exist. Before the round had even reached the back of the cavern, round two had been fired along a different trajectory, followed swiftly by rounds three and four

Almost simultaneously, in the other caverns along which the Dark Elven army was advancing, the other defensive turrets began to fire. The hypersonic rounds shredded everything in their path, and began to sow chaos among the slaves and their Drow overseers, who had no idea what was going on. Those in the front tried to push forward to get a handle on the situation and find out what was going on, while those in the rear, nearly deafened by the roar of the massive autocannons, tried to return to the apparent safety of the tunnels.

The end result was one giant, chaotic mess that only made the constructs job all the easier. She slowed down the firing rate of the weapons, pausing several of them entirely as ammunition efficient targets disappeared.

* * *

Further down within the depths of the tunnels, Jarlaxle heard a faint rumble and instinctively looked up towards the source of the noise. He frowned as he pondered what could be the source of the racket. It did not sound like the army at march, or any sound of battle that he was familiar with. He only hoped that whatever was causing it didn't decide that venturing down to check on him and his comrades was a good idea.

He looked over to the walls, where Umber Hulks were hard at work. The insectiod creatures were burrowing like mad through the walls of the cave complex. With luck, they would pop up past whatever was causing the racket.

Unknown to him, though, was that the creatures' efforts were setting off additional remote sensors.

* * *

Cortana detected the movement on her scanners, and processed the information in mere nanoseconds. She recognized the creatures but was somewhat surprised to see them. She didn't think that the Drow had access to a source of the brutes. Umber Hulks were apparently notoriously unstable creatures. Perhaps they were being controlled by magic? Yes, certainly a possibility.

She spun off a subroutine that began to calculate likely entry points for the tunnels that were being dug based off rock densities, current paths, and other factors. Most of them showed up behind the autocannons, and while the guns could be turned around, it was unlikely that she'd be able to get a line of sight orientation upon the intruders and trying to collapse the caverns by hitting the area around them with barrage fire too inefficient. Still, there was only so wide the tunnels could get, and the Dark Elves could never get the bulk of their subterranean forces up through those holes. This was clearly a hammer and anvil tactic. They'd expected a line of initial Dwarven defenders somewhere, and planned to cut them off.

They had been counting on the superiority of Dark Elf troops to win that battle for them. Narrow as those entrances were going to be, they would favor the superior combatant.

Unfortunately for them, that went both ways. She opened up a comm. channel to the teams on standby.

"Hunter Killers, defensive breach in progress at the following locations," she broadcast the coordinates to their HUDs. "Everyone to your sectors and prepare for enemy contact."

The Master Chief heard the order, and readied the drum magazine for his ASG-60. Then he took point for his group, moving forward like an armored wraith. His movement was contrasted by that of the Gutbusters behind him, and the nervous mage that had been assigned to the group, one Bidderdo Harpell. The man was tall and lanky, with disheveled hair that if the Spartan understood correctly, was due to the fact that an errantly cast spell had caused him to spend the past several years filling in the role of the Harpell family dog.

Earlier, Bidderdo had confided in him that he wasn't much of a combat mage, and the cyborg sincerely hoped that he wouldn't lose it at a bad time. That sort of thing resulted in wasted lives and unnecessary casualties.

This was somewhat offset by the fact that Pwent was among the Gutbusters making up the squad. The Spartan was, however, concerned about the Dwarven berserker's incredible battle lust, and twitchy personality. He'd have to be extremely careful issuing orders to him. Perhaps that's why Bruenor and Commander Keyes had entrusted him with this particular group.

The trip to the area where penetration was most likely took about ten minutes, by which time Cortana reported that the Drow were almost halfway through with the tunnels. They would be sloped at roughly thirty degree angles, and the bottoms likely crowded with massed troops ready to try and pinch off a traditional defensive line. The Spartan nodded as he waited. That was a perfect angle to roll a few grenades down.

He could feel the vibrations under his feet from the digging. It was subtle, different from the distant rumble of the firing autocannons, but he could feel it coming from beneath him, rather than through the entire cavern.

As they drew closer to the surface, Cortana continued to update the projected path. The Spartan crouched down behind a rocky protrusion while behind him, the Gutbusters prepared themselves and Bidderdo began to cast a few preparation spells. He could hear the quaver in the mage's voice, and frowned. He hoped he wouldn't have to baby sit the man. Things were going to be dicey.

The rock seven meters in front of him erupted outwards, and up came the Umber Hulk. It was a monstrous creature, reminding him of some freakish cross between a primate and an insect. Its bulbous, multifaceted eyes looked around as hopped up out of the tunnel and the slave behind it began to rush upwards. Then it began trying to widen the entrance.

The Spartan's response was swift and devastating. He aimed the ASG at the creature head and squeezed the trigger. The supersonic uranium raked the exoskeleton of the beast, puncturing and shredding its brains and eyes, while blasting a massive exit wound in it. He began to fire in short bursts at the now confused slave-soldiers. The Mjlonir armor kept him cool, masking his thermal signature. The only thing their heat sensitive eyes could see was the barrel of the assault weapon. By that time, though it was too late.

Body parts soon decorated the cavern floors and walls, and he began to shuffle forward as the troops were quickly pushed back into the tunnel. In the blink of an eye, the Spartan reached up and yanked two fragmentation grenades free from the bandolier that he wore. He lobbed them down the hole, watching as they rolled towards the Orcs, Goblins, and Kobolds that made up the first wave of troops. They seemed confused for a moment, and with a loud bang and a mighty flash, their confusion was their end.

The Spartan hunched down and began to push forward into the tunnel firing as he did. There were twists and turns throughout it, though. The Umber Hulks had been trying to get through the least dense rock, and this had the added side effect of limiting John's field of fire and how far away he could shoot the target from. He rounded one of those corners, and saw a Dreugar before him. The Gray Dwarf sensed its peril, even it if couldn't fully see him, and hurled a spear at the Spartan. It bounced off of his shields which flickered for a moment, lighting the tunnel up in the normal spectrum of light.

For a single, awful second, the Druegar and its allies behind it could see the creature that was to be their doom. For one single moment, the armored juggernaut stood clearly outlined. The assault shotgun was raised, and the trigger squeezed. The high powered pellets ripped through the Dwarf's steel armor like it wasn't even there, tearing him in half and killing him instantly.

The Spartan's built in night vision let him see effects of his rampage clearly, while his radio crackled with the status reports of the other Hunter Killer teams. Everything was going as planned, and once the tunnels had been cleared, the groups would converge on the cavern that the enemy troops had come from. From there, the Gutbusters would hit the Drow Lines while those armed with ranged weaponry and the mages would pepper them from the rear.

He was down to about twenty shots for the ASG-60, it would soon be time for a reload. The comfortable weight of rucksack attached his hip reminded the Chief that his usual problem when facing overwhelming odds, ammunition, would not be a problem this time around.

"HK-One, moving forward. Enemy resistance faltering." he said.

"Roger that," Commander Keyes said, "Gutbuster status?"

"Enthusiastic," he responded as he fired on a group of Kobolds. They screeched and tried to flee back down the tunnel. They didn't get far, and the Spartan thought that he could hear the sound of whips cracking. He must have been getting closer to the Drow forces. The question was, which did the slaves fear more, him, or their taskmasters? He'd find out soon enough, he supposed.

He reached into the bag and summoning a reload for his assault shotgun, before quickly swapping magazines and chambering a new shell. During this time, an Orc managed to summon up enough courage to try and rush him, with the result that the humanoid got its chest caved in by a well placed kick.

At last, though, he could hear the rumble of the army beneath him, and he caught a glimpse of the opening. The other teams were making similar progress, according to the radio chatter, and the Master Chief decided that was a good thing. The cave that was opening up in front of him positively swarmed with enemy troops. The horde that had held Mithril Hall seemed almost paltry by comparison.

Time to soften them up.

The Spartan reached up, and pulled a flash-bang from his bandolier, primed it, and hurled it with all of his strength. Arcing end over end, the little device sailed out into the center of the cave. Others flew end as Sangheili began to pour out of the tunnels, their plasma rifles filling the air with blobs of blue hot energy. The Master Chief swapped out his ASG-60 for his battle rifle, and primed the GDS attached underneath it. It beeped, ready to send a fifty millimeter phosphoric payload into the heart of the enemy ranks.

He did some quick mathematics in his head, accounting for air resistance, speed, the timer on the grenade, minimum arming distance and the like, and flicked the dial on the GDS. Now prepared to unleash hell, he fired the weapon as the flash bangs were landing.

"Bangers out, prep grenade launchers!" he heard Sergeant Johnson announce.

His speakers filtered out the roar of the flash-bangs, while his polarizing visor took care of the flash. The gun in his hand kicked as the grenade left it and joined dozens of others inbound towards the hapless Underdark forces. He opened the chamber, and reached down into his rucksack to pull out a new one.

"Their blinded!" he heard one of the Gutbusters shout, "charge!"

There was a swarm out of the tunnels, rushing past the Spartan as he fired another grenade.

In both cases his aim was true, and the grenades moved up over the mulling ranks of the slave troops and into the Dark Elven forces themselves. No sense wasting explosives on the fodder. Besides, the slaves were not exactly thrilled about facing what had just stormed down the tunnels that they themselves were supposed to be using to assault the Hall. Only the fear of Drow retribution kept them from retreating further back. Remove the taskmasters from the equation, or show that the Drow were no match for what they faced, and the slaves were likely to try and take their chances with whatever horrors lurked in the wilds of the Underdark.

Both grenades detonated, sending flames of white hot hell fire throughout the ranks of the blinded and helpless Dark Elves. The Master Chief nodded as he heard the screams and cries of male and female soldiers alike, and prepared a fragmentation grenade as Bidderdo walked up next to him. There was a quaver in the mages voice as he began to recite his spell. Still, he completed it, and it settled over the Master Chief and the Gutbuster forces.

It was a haste spell, one that sped the body and the mind up and allowed for the body to move at super human speeds. John had experienced it a few times before, but it was still a novel sensation. Spartan Time combined with the spell, and the world around him almost seemed to stop. The Goblins and Kobolds that had escaped the wrath of the flash bangs stood before the approaching Dwarven and Neo-Covenant forces, looks of absolute horror etched upon their faces. Off to his left, he could see Sergeant Johnson coming out of a tunnel, and watched as bullets slowly spun through the air as they inched their way towards the troops at the front.

"Moving to flank," the Spartan announced.

"Roger that," Cortana responded. "Alerting other teams to your location to avoid blue on blue."

The Spartan said nothing, but slapped his battle rifle onto his back, next to his ASG. He reached down into the rucksack, and withdrew a Covenant medium plasma cannon. It bore a superficial resemblance to a pre-fusion Human weapon known as the SAW, or Squad Automatic Weapon, and its purpose was virtually the same. At the moment, it had two things that the Master Chief knew would be necessary to inflict the maximum amount of damage to the enemy forces in both manpower and morale: stopping power, and an enormous ammo supply. The power connection cable ran down into the rucksack, where the sub-dimensional pocket kept it from slowing him down or getting in the way. Connected to an oversized power cell that would normally be worn like a backpack, he had thousands of rounds at his disposal. Looking at the horde in front of him, he'd probably need all that and more.

Rushing as quickly as he could—he had about a minute and a half of time from his perspective before Bidderdo's spell expired—the Master Chief bolted towards the side of the cavern. There he found a gap in the enemy lines, giving him a clear view of the true threat. The Dark Elves stood like statues, helpless. It almost bothered the Spartan to cut them down like this.

Almost.

He squeezed the trigger, and sent a burst of supersonic plasma rushing towards the Dark Elves. The Spartan briefly noticed how strange the spell's interaction with those not sped up. The kinetic impact and flash burn from the rounds impacting occurred almost instantaneously, real time from his perspective. What horror would it induce among their troops?

He began to fire again, the blue white blobs of energy streaking in and ripping into the enemy troops. One bolt took a female upside her head. It melted through her helmet in an instant, and violently blew her cranium apart in an explosion of bones and steam. Others had their chests blasted out by center mass shots, while others that the Spartan could not get as good of an angle on due to his position had arms and legs forcefully vaporized.

John knew they likely weren't dead just yet, though he had effectively mission killed them. The plasma would cauterize their wounds. They'd have to be put out of their misery once the still combat effective troops had been taken care of.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the other hasted troops went into action. Sergeant Johnson lobbed another fragmentation grenade into the midst of a group of Gray Dwarves. The grenade, enchanted by the same spell as its carrier, exploded before they could even react. Body parts rained down as the Sergeant Major unleashed his own ASG into the newly opened hole in the enemy lines. This was followed by another grenade volley from the GDS equipped weaponry, showering the hostile lines with sprays of deadly shrapnel or bathing them in hellish firestorms.

The Gutbusters were eager for action as well, and led by Pwent, were ripping through the enemy troops like thermite through rock. The leader of the Dwarven shocktroopers lowered his head as he ran, the massive spike upon his helmet sticking out like a spear tip. Sped up like he was, the Dwarf's first victim, a goblin, was first impaled, and then disappeared under the onslaught. It literally ceased to exist as Pwent lashed out with the barbed and hooked parts of his armor, ripping it asunder.

His momentum didn't even start to slow down as he rammed another, and another, before finally pulling out a one handed axe and entering a combat routine that was one part axe play, one part martial arts, and one part barroom brawling. As they continued to press forward, the slave lines began to falter, or seemed to be in the process of it at least. The mages also remained in the battle, summoning up protective spells around themselves, and then sending a volley of fireballs and lightning bolts into the enemy forces. The Spartan knew, however, that they were holding back and letting him and the Covenant forces do most of the work. They were supposed to primarily support the front line troops with augmentive spells, and leave the fireworks to him and the others.

All the while, he kept up the fire, slicing into the Drow ranks like a scythe among wheat.

* * *

Among the enemy forces was Jarlaxle, who stood agape in horror as he watched the slaves get pushed back out of the tunnels. He was not so much concerned about the Dwarves and what appeared to be Human and Surface Elf magi that accompanied them, but rather, the small warm objects that seemed to almost be free-floating in the air, whose carriers could only be seen when he squinted, and even then, as shadows against the darkness.

The Mercenary Captain instinctively closed his eye and plugged his ears. The roar still nearly deafened him, and threw him off balance, while the bright flash of the objects turned his world red. He could see his comrades as they cried out in agony through his eyelids and he grimaced in pain. Zaknafien had used similar objects when he'd still been alive, he remembered, and he knew how devastatingly effective those objects could be to races that were used to perpetual darkness. The loud roar though was not something he was certain he could get used to. His ears were still ringing, despite him plugging them.

He dared to open his eyes again as the flashes faded into nothingness, and he was left aghast at what he saw. Whole squadrons of soldiers were rolling around on the cavern floor in agony while Spider Clerics desperately tried to make whole their seared eyes and shattered eardrums. He faintly heard the impact of other objects, and hurled himself to the floor, covering himself in his cloak. More roars and explosions rumbled throughout the cavern in a hellish symphony. They were swiftly followed by the sound of wet splattering and more screams. Jarlaxle peaked out from underneath his protective cloak, and swore softly to himself. White-hot flames burned among the Dark Elf lines. It burned through flesh and metal armor, ate weapons as if they were wood.

There could be no doubt, he concluded, that the Dwarves had brought their demons, or whatever those things really were, with them to the battle.

Another flash caught his eye, and he turned to see a stream of blue white fire coming from a central source. The Dark elves in its path died where they stood, before they could even begin to contemplate what was killing them. A soft chanting brought the Drow's attention to Zetarin. His comrade finished his spell quickly, and the world around him slowed down. At last, Jarlaxle could see his people's killer. He called upon his innate powers, and stuck out his hand. Purple faerie fire leapt up around the thing, illuminating its outline and letting the others see it clearly.

He recognized the thing from earlier, during the battle in the Hall. Once more, it descended upon his people like an angry demigod, and sought to wipe them out. More blasts of fire came from its weapon as Zetarin began to cast another spell. As he finished, a bolt of lightning came from his hands and lashed out at the creature. It dove to one side, evading the bolt entirely, before countering its own weapon. Jarlaxle dove away as he saw the weapon, the white-hot mote of light against the darkness, line up.

He was fortunate, as the dive put a number of thick stalagmites and stone columns between him and the armored being, and the burst of bolts missed him. But then, he hadn't been the target of the attack.

The creature was the better part of three or four hundred feet distant, but its aim was perfect. Zetarin's arcane defenses held for a fraction of a second, before the energy bolts ripped them apart.

The Drow had a reputation for being ruthless, a reputation that Jarlaxle had done much to help perpetuate, but it was one thing to watch someone you didn't know or care about die in front of you. To watch one of your own men, who had stayed loyal to you in a world where loyalty barely existed at all… that was something else.

It seemed to happen in slow motion, and Jarlaxle knew he would carry the sight with him to the grave. The first round impacted on Zetarin's chest, igniting his robes and spell components as it blew a hole the size of an Ogre's head in it. There was a look of shock on the face of the mage for a brief moment before another bolt struck him in the face and blew it off. A third bolt impacted in the hole of the first one, and ripped the Drow's body to pieces.

Jarlaxle's nostrils were filled with the smell of cooking meat and death. He heard the roar of Dwarven battle cries and the sound of more of those strange blast globes hitting the ground. He looked around for a brief second, and between collapsing slave front and his own people dying left and right, he knew that the battle for this area of the caverns was over. There was a possibility that the wands used by these strange beings might run out of charges, but Jarlaxle had witnessed them in action before, and knew that such an outcome was unlikely. These things, whatever they were, were not that stupid.

He peeked out from around his cover, taking stock of the battle. It was not going well. While the slave troops had been meant to serve as fodder, they had been meant to wear down the Dwarves and their allies and make them too exhausted and worn thin to put up a proper defense against the real soldiers. They appeared to be little more than an inconvenience to whatever things these were. Already the defenders had mulched their way through many of the ranks, and held over a quarter of the large cave. Neither the demons nor the seemingly insane Dwarf shocktroopers showed any sign of slowing down.

He looked about, trying to spot his own forces. The members of Bregan D'Aerth had been spaced throughout the cavern as elite fighters used to shore up the troops. Not all of his band was here, something that the captain was secretly grateful for, but he could spot every member of his troop by the way they moved and fought.

They were dying.

He reached up for the whistle that he had around his neck, ready to sound the retreat for his troops and have them fall back in the confusion, when he noticed that a number of Spider Clerics surrounded by living shields in the form of Drow Warriors and slaves, were using a number of censors and braziers and summoning up fire. Demons would soon be on the battlefield. Perhaps the tide might yet turn. Lolth would not abandon her people in the hour of their greatest attack on the surface, right?

Portals erupted and with flashes of light and flames, dozens and then scores of demons appeared. Great hulking monsters and agile ones no bigger than a man. They were backed up by a group of a half dozen Glabrezu and a Balor, with two monstrous, arachnidan Bebilith that immediately skittered into the darkness. At the same time, the wizards were regrouping and casting their magic upon their strange opponents. Orbs of impenetrable darkness went out and formed over the Dwarves, while fireballs and lightning bolt shot into the mix. He also saw a group of elite Baenre troops activate the powers of their special spider weave cloaks. Given from Lolth herself, the arcane cloth enabled the wearer to, with a mere thought, run along walls and ceilings like the arachnids the goddess was so fond of.

They took off along the wall, and he could already guess the target. There was one particular member of the assault force, slightly smaller than the rest of the strange creatures, that was shouting out taunts and insults in particularly well spoken Dark Elven while it popped up to shoot from behind various outcroppings and stalagmites. A series of cross bow bolts flew towards the thing as it was lit up with faerie fire. However, they merely bounced off whatever armored shell the creature was clad in.

"You call that shooting?" he heard it shout, its voice echoing over the sound of the battle, as if amplified by arcane means. "I got a dead grandmother that can aim better than that! A real terror of the Underdark, you guys," he shouted again as a group of Gray Dwarves tried to storm towards him, only to be blown to pieces before they could even get into a proper battle formation. "What kind of a sick, demented individual sent you out here? I was told we would be fighting men, not children!"

The Balor, meanwhile, had spotted what it viewed as the greatest threat: the armored giant that had inflicted so much destruction upon them. While the colorful fire had faded from its outline, the heated bolts of its weapon were readily visible, and the demon did have better eyesight than its Elven allies. It extended a sword that was the size of a man, lightning crackling over its length, and roared. Its underlings charged at the juggernaut, several of them summoning a host of Dretches to rush it. The small, hunchbacked creatures clambered towards it, nearly two score strong. The armored being was a blur as it retaliated, leveling its weapon and firing as it retreated back towards its comrades in arms. The bolts impacted upon the small demons and they burst into fire as if struck down by the wrath of a Celestial. Two of the Glabrezu roared as they bent down and ran towards the target as if they were feral wolves. Their smaller arms extended and stunning spells exploded against the being.

If it was bothered at all by them, it didn't show. Instead it reached up and calmly hurled a brightly burning object at one of them. Its speed was amazing, Jarlaxle realized, as he did his best to stay hunkered back and out of sight, while trying to pulling his whistle up to his lips. A retreat was out of the question at the moment, but he could order his men and women to slink backwards and let the other Drow take a beating until the battle was more favorable.

It was then that he realized that the object had attached to the head of one of the Glabrezu, and the creature was currently attempting to remove it. It exploded with such force that a number of Dretches were either killed outright by the proximity or sent hurtling through the air. Most of the Glabrezu's upper body was gone, while the fur of its compatriot was on fire. Driven into a rage, it charged straight at its foe, and was cut down utterly without mercy by the juggernaut's weapon.

Fear pulsed through the mind of the Drow Mercenary. There were few things that could challenge Glabrezu like that, let alone kill them so easily. They hadn't even managed to get within striking distance before they'd died. It was sobering and Jarlaxle felt a cold sweat make his clothes and armor slick.

The Dretches died almost as swiftly as another object landed in their midst, and hellfire consumed them.

"Lolth's bloated ass, can't you do any better than that?" he heard the other thing shout, but at the same time noticed that the enchanted Gutbusters were coming perilously close to destroying the last fledgling resistance of the slave troops, particularly one psychotic one with a large spike on its helmet, probably a group leader of some sort.

Nearly half of the cavern belonged to the Dwarves and their allies, and even as he watched, a slave captain tried to challenge the Dwarven leader. She was bucked into the air as if hit by a charging bull roth. The spikes and hooks on the Dwarf's armor caught and tore at her as she sailed up, and Jarlaxle could see the warmth of her blood flying away from her body. She crashed back to the stone, and the Dwarves set upon her like Hook Horrors. It was over in moments.

"Special delivery for the Matrons!"

Jarlaxle watched two objects slightly warmer than the rest of the air came sailing in and land about fifty and a hundred feet away from where he stood. He swore softly and pulled himself as far behind the cover of the stone as he could. The objects exploded, and even from this distance, the leader of Bregan D'Aerth felt his skin blister from the heat. The sudden blast of fire disoriented him, and turned the whole cavern into one large heat blob. He couldn't see his immediate surroundings very well at all, but he could hear the screaming as flames consumed his people.

He watched in horror and shock as the fire spread like a ravenous beast, consuming everything that it touched, from flesh to cloth to metal. What magic was this?

As he dared to look back at the warrior that kept taunting them, Jarlaxle noticed that the Baenre troops had moved into position above the soldier, and the Drow thought he could see one of the Bebilith with them. A sphere of darkness formed around the trooper, something that not even Jarlaxle's sight could penetrate. Then the female soldiers raced down various stalactites towards the man. As they closed in on the sphere, though, a number of them suddenly exploded and more roars reached the Dark Elf's ears. He gaped in surprise, but chalked it up to luck.

Until two more died as they tried to close in. Rapid fire staccato booming echoed throughout the cavern, and Jarlaxle realized that somehow, in some strange way, that the warrior could see the Baenre troops closing in on him.

The last few were killed as they were dropping down into the sphere, and it was then that the Bebilith made its move. The large spider like monster dropped away from the ceiling, flipping around and spreading its legs out in anticipation of feasting.

More roars came from within the black orb, tearing into the creature's magical carapace and tearing off several of its limbs. Its screech was audible above the battlefield's din, and it landed, hissing in a rage inside of the sphere. Two more bangs, and all fell silent.

A few seconds passed and the sphere dissipated. The armored warrior seemed to be attaching something to its weapon. Gore covered his armor, bits of hot and cold blood and small chunks of flesh.

"Anyone else in a hurry to meet my boomstick?" he called out as he leveled the weapon and resumed firing it.

* * *

Within her mainframe, Cortana monitored the progress of her hunter killer teams, calling out tactical advice to them when necessary and alerting them to danger when it presented itself. The A.I. was pleased with the way things were going. Sergeant Johnson's taunts were doing an excellent job of luring the enemy out of combat formation and making them easier to deal with, which when combined with the plasma cannons that the Chief and the Sangheili were using, meant that enemy causalities were racking up quickly. Already, she counted the better part of two thousand dead based upon the feedback packages that she was receiving.

She had also kept an eye on the main areas. The Drow were holding back for the moment, afraid of whatever magical monstrosity she controlled, and so the fifty millimeters remained silent for the moment. She concluded it was likely that they would either try to magically carve their own tunnels, using Umber Hulks for such a purpose, or perhaps try teleportation. She had surprises for any Underdark warrior suicidal enough to try that tactic.

The surface army was also making good progress, and she radioed it in to the teams on waiting for them there. She ran a number of calculations based upon how much her sensors were being set off and from that when it would be a good time to try and seal them out in the open and unleash another form of hell on them.

* * *

The Master Chief glanced around as he continued to fire his plasma cannon into the ranks of the enemy. The Demons were focusing on him for the moment, a good thing. Though the haste spell had long since faded, he could still handle them, while Pwent and the others might get bogged down. It was imperative that they shove this army backwards, and the close quarters assault by the Gutbusters was critical for that.

A Glabrezu roared and fired several balls of darkness at him. The Spartan dove behind the cover of a boulder, and fired from behind it. The rounds were aimed as suppression fire, but as closely packed together as the Drow forces were, some of them invariably made contact.

"Grenades on my mark!" he heard a Sangheili subcommander shout. This was followed a few seconds later by explosions and screams as phosphorus and plasma grenades detonated. The Spartan shifted out from behind his cover, exposing his upper body. The Glabrezu were charging towards him with great speed. He saw a fireball form on the claws of one, and opened fire on it. A five round burst tore its chest open and cooked its insides. It collapsed and rolled, crushing several Dretches. Another burst took the head off of the closest one. That was the last of them. It left only the medium sized ones, and the great big Balor.

He also remembered that there had been a second Bebilith around somewhere.

The thought had no sooner crossed his mind then a great blob showed up on his motion sensor. The Spartan again leapt to the side as the thing crash to the ground, and turned hissing and spitting at him. Its eight eyes glowed red with malevolence, and at the end of its hooked abdomen was what appeared to be a stinger. He fired a burst, and with surprising speed, given its bulk, it leapt onto a nearby wall. A few of the bolts hit, however, and the end joints of its rear left legs were vaporized by the impacts. It hissed and howled, shaking the limbs.

Helm hadn't been kidding when he said that the blessings he'd bestowed upon the weaponry would make them wildly unpopular among the demons.

The Bebilith attempted to spit a type of webbing at him, but the Spartan easily evaded and returned fire. The creature didn't manage to pull off its dodge this time, and took several rounds to its exoskeleton. A screech fit to wake the dead echoed throughout the cave and the thing lost its grip upon the wall of the cave. It again lunge forward and tried to spit its webbing at the Spartan. Again, the cyborg dodged it easily, weaving to the side while pumping a burst of rounds into it. One connected with its head, and blew half of what passed for its face off. Still it clung to life on the material plane, and managed to close the distance between itself and the Spartan.

It attempted to bite him with the shattered mess that was its fangs and jaws. The Master Chief reached out and grabbed the thing around one of its mandibles. Chemically enhanced, iron dense muscles, motorized servos, and the crystalline strength amplification layer of the Mjolnir armor kicked in, and he ripped the demonic spider off of the ground and slammed it onto its back. Almost simultaneously, he brought his armored boot down on top of it while firing into the exposed underbelly. Its screams were cut off with a loud crunch.

Whatever sense of triumph the Spartan had was cut off by another blob appearing on his motion sensor. He dropped to the ground and rolled as a fiery whip sailed out over his head and the whoosh of a sword reached his ears. This was followed by a harsh, grating word and a flash of light. A pain jammed through the Spartan's skull, like something was inside trying to claw out his mind. He fought it off and flipped back up to his feet, orienting his plasma cannon.

It was the Balor. The thing had been watching him, seeing how he reacted, no doubt, and now had moved in to finish him off personally. Most likely, it had concluded that because he favored long range combat, his melee skills might not be as good. The Spartan responded by firing a barrage of plasma bolts into center mass. The Demon howled as its chest became pockmarked by fist sized holes. Any normal creature would have been killed instantly by the attack, but this wasn't a normal creature. It snarled and unleashed a blast of fire from the hand holding the sword. The Spartan couldn't move in time, and was enveloped by the firestorm.

A warning alarm trigger in the helmet, warbling in John's ear that the external temperature of the environment had just spiked up towards six thousand degrees. He rushed out of the flames, his shields crackling around him as they dropped rapidly. Thankfully, the sensor suite onboard the armor allowed him to locate the Balor despite the steam and jets of vaporized rock around him. He continued to fire the weapon, and it howled in agony yet again.

The Spartan aimed for its massive head, and fired again as its whip lashed out and tried to ensnare him. Hells, the thing was fast, and durable. He dodged to the side, and continued to fire. While he had succeeded in injuring it, it was very apparent that the demon was far from finished.

John was anything but disheartened, though. Enemies that didn't know how to die were the rule in the Spartan's line of duty, rather than the exception. He fired another burst as his foe blurred forward, screaming for his blood in its unholy tongue.

* * *

Okay, well, there it is. Chapter 27. Hopefully, it was a good one, and not a waste of everyone's time. As always, feedback is appreciated, especially constructive criticism. Despite my intention to become a blood sucking, soul devouring lawyer, I still want to write professionally some day, and I need to get better before that can happen.

Thank you again, everyone, for taking time out of your lives to read the story, and until I update again, stay safe.

-Red Mage 04.


	28. Chapter 27: Hell In A Very Small Place

Well, hello again everyone, after another eons long delay. As usual, my apologies for the delays, my lack of responses to your reviews like a good author should, and what I fear is the utterly atrocious quality of this dual update. I keep trying to tweak and improve this thing, but in addition to writers block, I've been dealing with 17 hours worth of exams, and after-wards, I continued to remain off the grid due to the infamous Bar Exam. I've taken that, and my MPRE ethics exam (insert Lawyer joke of choice here), but unfortunately, it'll be mid September before I get either result back. I'm not sure why it takes so long, maybe they want the fear to have time to ferment and age into proper panic and premature graying.

At any rate, I once again apologize if these two chapters are lacking in quality. Feel free to give me a proper slamming should that prove to be the case. And until I next mange to find the time to update (which will hopefully be before the next blue moon or Hell chooses to freeze over again), take care of yourselves.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Seven- Hell In A Very Small Place**

The Master Chief grunted as he rolled out of the way of the Balor's whip, firing off a number of plasma bolts into its face and torso. Around him, the vaporized rock filled the air with a scalding steam that would have cooked the flesh from any ordinary individual. But at the same time, it offered a blessing to him. The Drow would never locate him inside of this hot spot, and the ambient temperatures caused by the Balor's firestorm would likely render them nearly blind if they were to look this direction.

Another burst of plasma fire connected with the torso of the mighty demon, and the Spartan noted that it was having a minimal effect upon it, and the tiny holes that were being blown in its flesh only seemed to anger it. Logically, he had expected the Balor to be more resistant to the elements than its Glabrezu underlings; he had not anticipated resistance to this degree. It was time to change weaponry.

The Balor suddenly disappeared, and the Spartan tensed. He heard a faint pop of air behind him and lunged forward, curling up into a roll as he did so. He could hear the creature snarl, and felt a faint catch on his shielding as it crackling to life. Getting up to his feet, the Spartan flipped around, pulling his ASG-60 off of his back and aimed it at the target as he moved his cannon towards his back. A fully automatic fusillade of depleted uranium pellets streaked towards the target. Then they penetrated, seven rounds in less than a second, which ripped huge, bloody holes in the chest of the creature. It roared in agony as the fire from the weapon forced it backwards.

The cyborg attached the plasma cannon to his back, and took hold of the foregrip of the shotgun. Able to grip it properly, he targeted the creature's kneecap as it extended its hand to call on another firestorm. At the same time it spoke another arcane word, and another stab of pain went through the Spartan's skull. It felt like someone had stuck a knife in his head and was twisting it around, and John gasped in pain, staggering to his knees. Still, he fought through the haze of agony, and pulled the trigger again, getting back up to his feet and dashing sideways as he fired at the mighty demon.

As his temperature gauge spiked to hellish levels once again, he unloaded on the beast. Through his polarized visor, he watched as a three shot burst from the shotgun ripped into the right leg at the kneecap. The demon howled and collapsed. The Spartan's rapidly lowering shield bar forced him out of the fireball, but he kept track of where the demon had been. His motion tracker picked up movement, and he fired into the mass of steam and heat. A loud growl told him that he had hit his target, and he caught the blob of motion streaking to one side, far faster than a creature with a crippled leg should have been able to.

It had taken to the air. This fact was confirmed a few moments later when the demon emerged from the steam. Its eyes were motes of red fury and raw hatred, promising a thousand painful deaths for daring to wound it so gravely. The Spartan ignored the glare, and instead moved to flank the creature. Lightning crackled off the Balor's dark sword, while its voice called up a series of words in quick succession. The cyborg evaded the bolt of lightning and opened fire again. He tore more gashes in the monster's torso and one round blasted a large hunk of flesh from its upper left am. It managed to maintain its concentration, and completed its spell. A dozen glowing bolts leapt from its fingers and rushed towards John. Again, the Spartan attempted to evade, but these bolts tracked his movement and followed him unerringly. He recognized the spell: Issac's Greater Missile Storm, a more potent and powerful variation of the Magic Missile combat spell.

All at once, the bolts slammed home. The explosive fury of their power drained his shields and blew him through the air, spinning him around like a child's toy. He skidded backwards before flipping up to his feet, and he realized that there was something on the ground in front of him: the forward half to the plasma cannon he'd been carrying. The Spartan initiated a diagnostic on his suit to assess any damage as his shields recharged and he leveled his weapon.

A three shot burst echoed through the cavern. Again it howled in pain, and the Spartan grinned behind his enigmatic helmet as the pellets, moving at nearly three times the speed of sound, mulched the demon's left wing. The creature tumbled to the ground, and landed on its wounded leg. The roar of pain that resounded from it grated at the Spartan's mind and seemed to make his bones shudder, but he ignored it. It was time to finish the job. He sighted up the wounded leg, and fired another three rounds from the drum magazine. Already heavily damaged, the remaining blasts tore the limb in two, and the creature barely managed to catch itself.

"Status, Sierra?" He heard Cortana ask him.

"Engaged, assistance not necessary at the moment," he growled, firing a double tap with the last of his ammunition that reduced the Balor's sword hand to a bloody stump. It howled and dropped the blade. "Keep the others on the Drow, I've got this situation under control."

"Roger," the A.I. replied, as the Spartan began to move in towards his crippled foe.

The Balor was clearly becoming desperate, and it fired off a massive barrage of lightning. Some of the bolts connected and splashed against his shields. For a brief moment, the Spartan was grateful for his Mark VI armor and its rapidly recharging defenses. The shields of his old suit probably wouldn't have weathered the abuse so well, if at all. The Master Chief reached into his rucksack for a new ammo drum, ejecting the old one and letting it fall to the ground. As he began to pull a fresh drum magazine from within the enchanted sack, though, he noticed that the Balor was chanting again in its inhuman, grating voice. With no time to prime the weapon, the Master Chief blurred forward. He crossed the twenty meter distance between himself and the demon in less than a second, catching it off guard, before slamming his foot into its lower jaw. The force was enough to pick the two-ton monster up off the ground and send it flying nearly seven meters through the air. The Spartan jumped after the demon, and was surprised to find it trying to get back up again. That blow should have broken its neck.

No matter, he thought, as he brought his weight down on its chest, crushing the wind out of it as his left foot landed on its sternum, his right upon its neck. The Balor gasped in pain, its bloodied jaws open just wide enough for the Spartan to shove the barrel of his ASG-60 down its throat. A single squeeze of the trigger sent three rounds into the back of its head and the roof of its mouth. These were flechette rounds, and the deplete uranium razors fragmented, ripping apart the Balor's brain and blowing the back of its skull out.

As dark blood and brains oozed out of the myriad of wounds that covered the corpse, the Spartan began to run. He had studied enough of Balors to know what happened when one of them was killed. Already, his sensors could detect the energy build up as the magics holding the body together began to become violently unstable.

Four seconds later, it detonated with a titanic explosion that shook the tunnel to its bedrock. Supports collapsed, and a hundred tons of rock fell at ground zero, burying what ashes were left of the corpse. John knew that he had not killed the demon, not in the true sense. But what he had done was render it banished to its home plane in the Abyss for the next century or two. One way or another, it was effectively out of the fighting, and the Spartan reached down into his rucksack. Cortana had seen fit to issue him a few spares for his weapons, just in case they happened to be destroyed. He yanked out another plasma repeater, and returned to the battle.

* * *

From where he stood in the cover of the deep recesses of the cavern, Jarlaxle fought the urge to simultaneously whistle and gulp in terror. A Balor. The Dwarves' pet creature had taken on not merely Glabrezu and Bebiliths, but a fully-grown, millennial old Balor in single combat, and defeated it utterly. Most of the Matron Mothers did not have that manner of power at their disposal.

What pact had the followers of Bruenor Battlehammer made to unleash such a creature?

He brought his whistle to his lips once more, and began to play the notes that would tell his followers to let the other Drow move to the forefront. A line had been crossed within the mind of the leader of Bregan D'Aerth. A creature that could fell a Balor was beyond him, beyond any of his soldiers. He would not send them to their deaths in a battle that could not be won.

More clanking reached the Dark Elf's ears, and he covered himself in his cloak again. The flashes and the roars ripped throughout the cavern, followed by the sound of more of those strange blast globes detonating. When his ears stopped ringing and the spots in the back of his eyes had cleared, the mercenary looked up again. What he saw horrified him. The lines of the slave soldiers were collapsing before the might of the Dwarven forces and their allies. He caught sight of the creature, or what he believed to be it anyway. He could not see its body, but the weapon it used, and the trail of destruction that it unleashed was easy enough to follow. It was moving back towards the magi that were in league with the Dwarves.

Jarlaxle knew what was going to happen next, and made a decision then. Lolth could try and flay his hide a thousand times when she came for him in the Abyss, or wherever he was destined to go when he died, but he would be damned before he stayed huddled against the rock like a child shivering before Hook Horrors for one more second while he simply waited for that armored behemoth to come up and finish him off.

This should have been foreseen. A creature of that extraordinary level of might and power should not have gone unnoticed by the High Priestesses of Lolth and the Matrons of the Dark Elves. Matron Baenre, or one of the other leaders of the Ruling Houses should have spotted this thing in their visions.

Another blast of white-hot bolts ripped through the last remnants of the slave lines, followed by another volley of blast globes. Jarlaxle felt his back blister under the heat of the assault as he did his best to flee back into the darkness. The screams of the Dwarven Berserkers reached his ears moments later, and the cries of their falling foes changed from the brutish grunts of Orcs and goblinoids to the higher pitched screams of Drow warriors, male and female alike, being ripped to pieces. He looked back over his shoulder. Some of the Dwarves had fallen, maybe a quarter of their force, but he had studied enough about these Dwarves to know that was not a good thing at all.

Even as he watched, a Gutbuster took a saber across his throat. Bright blood spilled down the front of the little Humanoid's armor and stained its beard a hot red in the infrared spectrum. The Dwarf went down to his knees, only to drive his axe up into the groin of his attacker as he stubbornly got back up to his feet. The male warrior screamed in agony as he fell, silenced swiftly by another blow that took his head off. Blood still spewing from the gaping wound, the Dwarf took his axe in both hands, and with all of his dying might, brought it down on the Drow that came up to replace the fallen soldier. The female, one of house Horrath's finest, going by the pattern on her cloak, raised both of her swords to block the blow. It was a mistake. Against a normal foe, it would have rendered the attack impotent, but the strength of the berserker drove the axe onward, and it smashed through the defense, snapping both of the slender blades with its power.

Jarlaxle could imagine the girl's face twisting into a mask of horror as the axe descended and buried itself into her chest.

Only then did the Dwarf stagger again, only then did it fall. Worse, upon seeing their comrade slip into Death's embrace, roars went up from ever one of the shocktroopers. The scream echoed throughout the cave, picked up by other units as they realized that another of their brothers had fallen.

Jarlaxle remembered once, centuries ago, when Zacknafein had once joked that there were few things on Torril that were more dangerous than a Dwarf standing amongst dead kin. The Do'Urden weapon master had obviously never seen these particular Dwarves in action, or he might have rephrased that statement slightly. As the battle cry built to a crescendo, the Dwarven troopers set upon their foes with such a wrath and fury that the Dark Elven front seemed to disintegrate into a mass of flying blood and hacked body parts. Axes cleaved, hammers crushed, and the punches, kicks, body checks and head butts, mixed with the bladed armor that the Dwarves wore, shredded any unfortunate enough to encounter them.

Jarlaxle suspected that there might have already been as many as three or four thousand dead in the chamber if he included the slaves. There were more to the rear, and he could already hear the priestesses calling for more fodder troops to be sent up to try and bury the defenders with sheer numbers. Jarlaxle doubted their effectiveness, though. More blast globes hit as he fell back, letting other Drow troops skitter around him. More between him and the murderous opposition, he thought, as he turned and covered himself with his cloak. The concussions of the detonations rattled his bones, and the heat scorched his skin even through the cloak.

They were getting far too close for his liking. He needed to find a way to effectively disengage the opposition before they got too close to him. He frowned, and tried to fathom what to do as another wave of his people were cut down and slave troops began to replace them. He knew that the morale of the slave troops was nearly nonexistent, and only the priestesses at the rear kept them in line. As the first waves of goblins and kobolds began to falter and die before the hellish onslaught of the Dwarven troops and their strange allies, he knew this battle was lost. It was only a question of how long before the clerics of Lolth allowed themselves to realize that.

A wizard chanted some fifty paces to his left, only to be cut off in mid syllable as a burst of light connected with his defenses, ripped through them, and blasted his body to ash and vapor. Terror clutched at the mercenary's heart for a brief moment before he could regain control of himself. He knew what was responsible. He could see it, the glowing weapon, far back against the cavern. The armored behemoth had flanked them again, and was tearing through their lines from one side while the Dwarves pressed up the center.

"Say hello to my little friend!"

A series of cacophonous bangs met his ears, and twisting, Jarlaxle could see that the loud-mouthed trooper and a number of other demonic soldiers had flanked from the opposite end. The defenders now had a horseshoe shaped formation going, ensuring that they could inflict maximum damage in a short period of time. Both flanks were turned. If the Dark Elf had any doubt that this battle was at its end, they were now quashed.

Still the slaves fought on, still the blast globes fell and the beams of white-blue heat ripped his people and their conscripted soldiers to pieces. Death filled his nostrils, and he steeled himself against the nauseous stench of cooking flesh and hair.

Motion caught his eye as he heard one of the high priestesses step up and begin screaming to her underlings. It was a device that seemed to be a blast globe, but unlike the others, did not fall to the ground, but moved through the air as if kept aloft by magic. Unerringly, it streaked towards the priestess, glowing warmly in the darkness of the cave. She saw it coming, and attempted to dodge, but the object moved with her, and a half dozen spider like appendages burst from the part facing her. They dug into her face, and he heard her screech in pain as they punctured her flesh.

Jarlaxle swore, and dove behind another stalagmite. Though his contact with these other worldly warriors was brief, he knew enough about them to deduce that there was a high probability that this situation was going to end with a bang.

He had no idea how right he was.

The Master Chief watched from behind cover as the device sought out its target. The Haste spell he'd had Bidderdo recast allowed him to watch it in extraordinary detail. Cortana had taken the device and created it a few days ago. There were only a handful of them, but the 'Antioch Grenade' as it had been dubbed, promised to bring about a new age in decapitation attacks and 'breach and clear' operations. Enchanted by magic to float and seek out the target that the thrower could see, it would head there and latch on.

He saw the hands of the Priestess drop her shield and her mace; she tried to reach up to try to pry the Antioch Grenade from her face. A beeping noise, barely audible, signaled that the grenade had armed itself. There was a flash, and in an instant, the flesh melted from her bones as she took a disintegration spell straight to the face. Screams of horror echoed through the lines and ranks, and there was a visible ripple as the troops struggled to move away from the collapsing skeleton, for fear that there might be more.

Those nearest to the priestess' body did not live long enough to appreciate what happened when the second stage of the grenade kicked in half a second later, what occurred when thermite based thermobaric explosives were mixed with holy magics and blessings of Helm and Moradin. The Antioch Grenade beeped one final time, and the cavern shook as if a half ton bomb had detonated inside of it.

The blast range was more than thirty five meters in every direction. Orcs, Goblins, Kobolds, Gray Dwarves and Drow were incinerated in a white hot fireball. Those beyond its range were cooked by ambient heat, or crushed and broken before the power of the shockwave. Some unfortunates who managed to survive that were still alive to experience the powerful vacuum effects that came with the air being used to fuel the explosive punch and then rapidly attempting to return to the place it had occupied and reestablish its equilibrium. They had the unique experience of their last visions being their own lungs ripped out of their chests.

The morale of the Drow forces shattered like glass and they broke in all directions, fighting amongst themselves in their flurry to escape whatever hell the Dwarves had unleashed upon them.

As he ducked back into the tunnel with his surviving forces, Jarlaxle knew that victory might yet be possible, but it would depend upon the forces on the surface being victorious and flanking around the Dwarves and their allies.

* * *

High Captain Serinanna of House Detrianth led her lizard riders up the sloping cavern floor. Her mount hissed softly as it felt the cool wind blow down upon its face, and it shook itself slightly. The female growled and kicked the beast in the side. It hissed again, even quieter this time, and stopped its errant behavior. The cold weather might have been getting to the beast, being from a world where the temperature was almost a year round constant, but she would not allow its instincts to ruin her moment of glory.

A smile came to her face as the lizard came upon a rocky patch of ground, and maneuvered itself onto the wall of the cave, while her sisters followed suit behind her. She would lead the charge into the enemy lines, and seek out the blood of the Dwarven forces. Though it meant serving alongside slave troops, and there was a good chance that she would be killed, she knew that if she could break the enemy, that there would be an honored place for her at the side of Lolth when the battle was over with. Dreams of eternal glory caused her smile to spread wider, and before she knew it, the stars looked down on her from on high. It was a strange sight to see, she knew, marveling upwards at the greatest cavern in the world. The captain had studied the texts about the surface, though, and knew that within a few hours those gentle, sparkling motes of light would fade away to be replaced by a hellish burning sun.

They needed this done as quickly as possible. She had no intentions of being caught out under that thing. She paused and reached down to her belt, pulling a telescope up to her eye. They were still many miles off, but she could see the defenders down below, milling about in trenches. The High Captain snorted in amusement. They thought their feeble little dugouts would save them?

"Sibilus, can you sense anything?" she spoke in a voice that was just above a whisper.

"Not from this distance, milady. It is important to remember, though, that few human mages have the power to cast traps that would be detectable at this range, and the Dwarves tend to shun such practices." the mage said, shaking his head softly under his cloaked visage. Underneath him, his lizard mount snorted. The mage was new to this sort of thing, and there hadn't been time for his mount to get used to his scent.

"Then alert me when you do pick them up," she hissed, drawing her blade. "Charge!" she shouted.

From behind, there was the crack of whips, and suddenly the slaves became quite eager to charge towards the lines of the enemy. Or at least, as much of a charge as things would get for the moment. No fool, with two or more miles between herself and the enemy, would openly charge now, the troops would be half-dead from exhaustion by the time they got to the enemy lines.

The troops poured out tromped into the valley below. As the minutes passed, they formed up. The idea was to let the enemy see their numbers, and then let them tremble in despair as they realized that they could not possibly hope to defeat such a host. A smirk came to the High Captain's face, and she became almost giddy with the thought of the pending bloodshed.

Other eyes watched her and her troops, though. Lord Nasher, surrounded by his Nine, gripped the hilt of his sword and stared down from the highest hilltop in the valley. Next to him was Lady Aulistriel, in her arcane chariot, ready to take to the skies and rain fire and fury down on the enemy. Down below, amongst the line of defenders was King Revajik. The old Barbarian had insisted among the defenders and fighting beside them. Others in that list included Captain Besnellof the Silvery Knights, the Neseme Riders, soldiers of Bryn Shander, Khulmar Ironfist and his fellows alongside the host of Battle Hammer Dwarves. Elven rangers stood side by side with Unggoy troops, Dwarves shoulder to shoulder with Neverwinter's finest, and Ten Towns soldiers with the Plainsmen they had so long been at odds with. Towering above them all were the dozen odd Sangheili troops that had been committed to this fight.

Lord Nasher heard a rumbling to his right, and he turned to face Lotar. The mighty Hunter stood at its full height, more than twice the size of a man. The cannon on its right arm glowed an eerie green in the moonless night. There seemed to be a pattern to its sounds, and the Lord of Neverwinter realized that it almost sounded like some kind of singing. The creature, no, creatures, he reminded himself, were apparently prone to chanting battle poems of its kind during battle. He wondered what kind of effect that might have upon the Dark Elves, to see such a thing marching amongst them like an unstoppable force of nature, so calm, so serene.

He refocused his attention on the battle lines that the Drow were drawing up. Even now, he knew that the mortar teams were drawing up coordinates, and the Avenger, so many miles off, was preparing its deadly cargo for the optimum firing time. Warthogs and Specters lay at the ready, preparing to unleash hellish attacks on their foes while Pelican gunships and the Longsword fighter prepared for gun runs. The two Scorpions and the Rhino also stood by. And, somewhere out upon those mountains, two more surprises awaited any Drow who sought shelter within the peaks and crags.

This would be a battle unlike any Faerun had ever seen, and it was something that Nasher knew, deep down, would change the face of his world forever. These Humans, brothers from beyond the stars, would irrevocably alter history.

"May the gods of light and goodness be with us," he whispered.

"And may we hold through the night." Lady Alustriel whispered to his side.

Moment by moment, the enemy poured out of the cave. The host of the Underdark held everything that Nasher could have imagined as he brought a pair of 'binoculars' to his eyes. He zoomed the device in, and could make out the details of Orcs, Kobolds, Goblins, Gnolls, Minotaurs, Dreugar, Mind Flayers, Dark Elves, and a number of pet beasts they had brought with them. The host numbered in the hundreds of thousands, and seemed to fill the entire valley. Even as he watched, a number of shapes took the air, before transforming into their true shapes. Lord Nasher saw dragons, white and black, that had allied themselves with the cause of the Dark Elves. Demons began to appear as well, Bebiliths, Glabrezu, Dretches, six armed Marliths slithered amongst their ranks, while great, toad like Hezrous formed up on their outer flanks.

They began to charge forward. Demons and Dark Elven cavalry lead the attack, lances poised down and at the ready. They made seemingly random leaps and turns as they closed, no doubt a mage among their ranks calling out magically concealed pits and traps.

"Enemy troop numbers at optimum levels," Cortana spoke over the comlink that Nasher had inside of his right ear. "Avenger, fire at will."

"Commencing firing." The voice of the Sangheili on the other end of the line was disturbingly calm.

The Atoll missile typically carried a warhead that weighed the better part of a 'metric' ton, and could move at speeds approaching one mile a second, Nasher had learned. It would take them less than thirty seconds to cross the distance between their MLRS platform and their targets.

"Missiles away, commence reload, move, move!" the Sangheili shouted to his subordinates.

The front lines of the enemy were within one quarter of a mile of the first trenches. As he watched, one cavalry trooper or the occasional Demon here or there would find a pit that had been concealed by more mundane means, and Nasher smiled grimly at the thought of the wood and metal spikes impaling the individual. Images of the slaughtered village appeared in his mind, and he remembered how the Drow had butchered them without mercy, hesitation, or discrimination.

Vengeance was a subject that Tyr tread lightly upon. One was supposed to deliver justice and retribution, but not take personal pleasure in it. Rarely had the Lord of Neverwinter found that tenant harder to follow than at this moment.

A volley of arrow fire went up, sailing down amongst the enemy troops. A few hits were scored, but nothing major. Good. Let them think the resistance here paltry, the result of a last minute realization that the Underdark forces might attack from two fronts.

"Missile impact in six seconds," Cortana spoke.

Everyone tensed, and Lotar rumbled softly. Nasher knew the creature lacked a face, but its body language as it hunched down to battle position seemed to indicate that it was smiling.

He never heard them, it was impossible at the speed they were moving, but he saw them for a few brief moments. The glow of their engines gave them away as they emerged from over the top of one of the mountains. Then, in what seemed nothing more than the blink of an eye, they were over the ranks of the enemy. The forty-nine Atoll missiles streaked overhead, and then they went about their deadly work. The panels on the scatter missiles blew out, and each one rained dozens of deadly explosive rockets down upon the hapless Underdark army, thermobarics streaked down towards apparent command and control groups, standard high explosives sought out massive gatherings of Drow troops behind the lines of their slave soldiers, and a quartet of bunker busters streaked through the tunnel openings. All detonated within seconds of one another.

In one moment, it seemed as if a gateway to the deepest level of Hell had been belched forth onto the Material Plane. Midnight became day as the shockwaves from the missiles' passing caught up with them and shook the valley as if the Gods themselves spoke condemnation upon the forces of the underworld that had dared to tread upon the surface.

Chaos manifested itself in the following few seconds as thousands of fragments of hypersonic metal turned men, women, and monster alike into so much warm meat and fireballs larger than any ever seen by mortal eyes came to life. Demons died in agony as fire consumed them and pressure waves smashed their bones to powder. Dark Elves left the mortal coil screaming in agony as the brightness burned their eyes from their sockets microseconds before shrapnel filleted them alive.

In one of the bloodiest moments in the history of all of Faerun, more than sixty thousand lives were instantly snuffed out.

"Initiate phase one defenses." Cortana ordered.

"Initiating Divide and Conquer," Commanders shouted back in return.

Heavy machine guns opened up, spewing barrages of depleted uranium at the first wave of now very confused Underdark forces. They fired in four-second bursts, each of the tribarreled weapons sending sixty rounds tearing through the enemy ranks. Caught between the massive explosions to the rear and the sudden unexpected onslaught form the front, the Drow lost control of their mounts. Some bolted forward, and ran into the traps set by the defenders, falling in amongst punji sticks and coiled razor wire to die screaming agony as their own pain induced spasms shredded their bodies. Others turned and ran, to face similar fates as they fell into the magically concealed pits.

High Captain Serinanna attempted to regain control of the situation. She shouted out orders, threatened the curse of Lolth upon those who did not heed her words. Then she felt an impact and the next thing she knew, she was upon the ground. The right side of her body seemed strangely numb, and she tried to move her arm to get it to help her up. She found that she could not, and, puzzled, looked to see what the problem was. To her surprise, she discovered that she no longer had a right arm. The limb ended about two inches below her shoulder, and was nothing more than a mass of shredded flesh spilling blood out onto the ground. Strange that there was no pain, she thought, and tried to rise. It was only after that that she looked down and realized that she didn't have a right leg either.

She felt cold suddenly, and very confused. Where was the pain, where was the agony?

The world seemed to slow around her, to where she could see everything crystal clear. Another of her comrades tried to take command, but just seemed to vanish into a cloud of blood. Up above, a light as bright as the hellish fireball that lit the surface world seared her eyes, forcing her to protect them with her remaining hand. She heard the scream of a dragon, and watched as a great white, sixty feet long, dove towards the enemy lines. Streaks of blue filled the air, and it seemed to… to just come apart.

The High Captain's last realization in life was that the dragon's large head seemed to be on a collision course with the area of the ground that she now occupied.


	29. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty Eight: Hell In A Slightly Larger Place**

Lord Nasher nodded as he watched the great white dragon fly apart under the fury of the Dawn's point defense weaponry. The skies would become death traps for the creatures now, and with any luck, would keep them from raining death down on the troops from above.

He raised his binoculars to his eyes and stared at the cave from which the Dark Elves and their vile allies had emerged. The night vision elements of the device adjusted as mortar systems sent burning phosphoric flares up into the air. The cave was buried now, hidden from sight by hundreds of tons of rock and stone. He smiled ferally. They were caught now. Nowhere to run.

But the battle was not yet over. The Drow seemed to realize that they had been caught with their pants down, and that their method of escape was cut off. Drow mentality was when chaos reigned and no orders were given, to run and hide, but if that was not possible, to fight. If luck was on your side, your ferocity might intimidate your opponent, and cause him to make a mistake, or in extreme cases, destroy his moral as he faced what he thought was a suicidal berserker.

In this, though, he knew that the Drow would err. The people down below were not helpless farmers and sheepherders in a lightly defended village. They were men and women forged in the fires of battle and the carnage of war. They were united by the common knowledge that if they fell here, if they failed to hold the line against the tides of darkness, then their families would suffer for it, and evil would sweep over the land.

When the hordes of demon kind, Orcs, Goblinoids, Dark Elves, Mind Flayers, and other Underworld horrors rushed at them, they stood their ground and did not falter. They sent more bullets towards the rushing army, more arrows, and more spellfire. They shouted and they screamed with such a fury that the Lord of Neverwinter could hear them even above the din of the battle and the screams of the dying.

As one, the united forces of Men, Dwarves, Elves, and aliens shouted for their foe to come to the slaughter, on how they were spider-spawned wretches, of how the defenders would send them to the tortures of the Abyss. By contrast, the Drow themselves were silent save for the roars of their allies and their cries of agony.

The Dark Elves and their allies surged forward, employing slave troops in the front to try to buffer themselves and the more powerful demons against the rain of high-powered bullets and spells until the last possible second. At first, it seemed to work, and while the front lines of their slaves seemed to disintegrate into a bloody mess and the Drow themselves ran or rode over a sea of blood and body parts, they pushed themselves closer.

As they managed to move within two hundred yards of the initial line of defenders, though, two things occurred. The first was an unearthly screech, followed almost simultaneously by a boom that echoed through the canyon. Nasher winced at the noise, before looking up and searching for its source. He found it readily enough. The two Pelicans were hovering above the battle, more than a mile off of the ground. Then chinned their noses down, bringing to bear their mighty seventy millimeter gun and their missile pods. Valykrie missiles shot out a moment later, while a smattering of depleted uranium rounds impacted against the ground, targeting larger demons and what appeared to be command groups. The hypersonic rounds slammed into the earth, causing it to buckle and heave, while concussion waves and sonic overpressure crushed bodies and sent them flying through the air.

A Malrath and the Glabrezu under its command died instantly as one of the rounds, aimed by Cortana, rushed down from on high and penetrated through the top of its skull. Nasher was tempted to smirk as the second element entered the battle.

The clumping together of the enemy troops had made area of effect attacks ideal. Now well within range, turret mounted grenade launchers went into action. Four shot bursts sent fifty-millimeter projectiles screaming downrange, where they detonated with savage fury. Armor designed to withstand sword blows and arrow strikes offered no protection against supersonic UNSC metal. Men, women, and monster alike died and pieces of their shredded bodies went flying through the air, soaking their comrades with blood and gore.

The Covenant plasma mortars began to rain down their deadly armaments as lightning crackled through the sky. The plasma mortars glowed a deep royal blue against the night sky, almost beautiful in a haunting sort of way, like masterfully cut sapphires that had been hung in the air by the hands of the Gods. The unearthly shriek that they gave off as they screamed towards the ground, however, would foreshadow their purpose. The first four exploded just as another bolt of lightning lit up the rumbling thunderheads above.

Everything within twenty meters of the impact zone was instantly vaporized, and the air shook as if lightning had struck at the feet of the Dark Elves.

"Initial bombardment successful, adjusting fields of fire and trajectory arcs." A Sangheili Commander announced.

"Roger that," Cortana said. "Accounting for adjustment. Lord Nasher. Requesting permission to bring the Scorpions and the Rhino tank into the battle."

"Permission granted," Nasher replied as he continued to survey the carnage before him. "Send them to the Abyss!"

Cortana's reply was to fire the ninety and one hundred and twenty millimeter rail cannons on the three tanks. The UNSC had a large number of round types available for its heavy armor to use in battle, and while the Dawn's armory had leaned heavily towards kinetic kill SABOT rounds and HEAT variants, there were a few rounds that were more optimized towards dealing with large numbers of infantry soldiers: Canister Rounds. Nicknamed 'shredders' by the tankers that used them, it was essentially a tank sized shotgun shell that sent bursts of grapeshot-like slugs downrange and make a hell of a mess out of anything smaller than a Hunter. These were programmed before firing by the targeting computer to explode at an optimum distance, allowing them to tear through lightly armored ranks of soldiers before detonating, thereby maximizing the lethality and efficiency of the round.

The first volley ravaged the front lines, tearing through a few ranks of slave soldiers before exploding in the Drow ranks. Dozens and scores of Underdark dwellers were killed as the slugs exploded into marble sized bits of metal and sent pieces of bodies raining down from the sky like some king of macabre rain.

For the third time in as many minutes, lightning crackled above and thunder rumbled.

"I wonder if the gods look down upon this battle," Nasher said, his voice barely above that of a whisper.

"Yeah, all we need is a torrential downpour and the trope is complete," Cortana said.

The A.I. construct had no sooner spoken than the clouds split open and water began to pour from the sky. Lord Nasher nodded approvingly. A torrential downpour would turn the ground to mud, and that would hamper the Drow's forward movement.

There was a flash down amongst the ranks of the defenders, and the Lord of Neverwinter immediately cast his gaze down towards it. The Dark Elves were not foolish, and were quickly trying to adapt to the tactics of their enemies. A group of soldiers had hooked up with a wizard and a Cleric of Lolth, and had teleported themselves into the midst of the defenders, behind the murderous killing field in front of the machine guns and the automatic grenade launchers.

They appeared amongst the bowmen first, and the first few defenders were cut down before they had a chance to drop their longbows and draw their shortswords.

"Teleporters!" someone shouted over the taccomm.

"Roger that, directing support," A Sangheili responded.

"Acknowledged!" the Barbarian said.

A group commander drew an assault rifle, and began firing bursts into the ranks of the teleporting enemies. Dark Elves dropped to the ground as fist-sized chunks of flesh were torn from their bodies, while the wizard and the cleric hastily erected a shield over themselves. Nasher watched through his binoculars as the Plainsman kept firing the weapon into the shield, trying to keep the two spellcasters on the defensive and prevent them from getting off anything else that could kill his comrades. Meanwhile, streaks of light zipped in and finished off the melee fighters. The Unggoy then turned their attention to the casters, and a barrage of well placed shots from their modified carbines and plasma SMGs quickly ripped through the magical shielding and slaughtered the two Dark Elves.

But the secret was out. And handful of others had spotted the tactic, and now sought to employ it on their own. A group of demons came next.

"Glabrezu!" someone shouted.

"This is Sergeant Tanic of Fireteam Zulu, moving forward towards enemy incursion and requesting fire support from Foxtrot Company!" A black armored Unggoy called out, bracing a small carbine against his shoulder and firing it in quick double taps at the large wolf-like demons.

The Humans that composed the requested company quickly complied with the request from their otherworldly allies, and began to fire bursts of depleted uranium at their unholy adversaries. The demons responded with arcane barrages, sending fireballs and bolts of lightning towards the second rank of defenders. Wards flashed to life, shielding the troops from the attacks, but Lord Nasher didn't know how much longer they would hold. The men and women in the trenches, though, were quick to respond. One of the large demons howled in triumph as it scooped up a pair of longbow men from the first trench in its large, crab-like claws and quickly dispatched them, only to howl in agony as a fifteen round burst caused its chest to explode outward, leaving a hole large enough for two grown men to crawl through. Another one had its head taken off as a mark twenty-one grenade slammed into it and exploded.

Sergeant Tanic and the rest of his troops took out a third and a fourth in rapid succession as they adjusted the power feed on their plasma weapons to fire more powerful shots. But there were still three left, and they were inflicting horrific casualties Lord Nasher's sole consolation was that the turreted weapons that were still firing into the main ranks of the armies were returning the favor several score fold.

"We need to discourage them from doing that," Nasher snarled. "Cortana, is there anything you can do?"

"I've identified the larger demons that would be capable of teleporting large groups of troops, and I'm going to take them out from the air. UAV feedback's also reporting that there are a number of Dark Elf and Illithid wizards that are moving up along the slopes of the mountains. I suspect that they're going to try and circumvent the defenders and try to force open the gates of the Hall."

"I understand," Lord Nasher stated. "Is our defensive element in position?"

"Specialists Usze and N'tho are on station and ready." Cortana said over the roar of a volley of tank rounds. In the distance, another dragon screamed as it got too close to a Pelican, and the gunship turned its mighty cannon upon the creature.

"They are teleporting again," Lady Alustriel said, and she flicked the reigns of her arcane chariot. "I shall go and assist the defenders."

She was off in a flash, streaking like a comet towards the dark tides that sought entrance to Mithril Hall. Lord Nasher was somewhat nervous about her departure, but understood the necessity. While he and the Nine were now more vulnerable, for the greater good, it was necessary that she head over to the front and begin to erect warding against teleportation attacks.

He focused back on the battle with the Glabrezu, and nodded as he watched the Unggoy fireteam slaughter the last one. It went down with a roar, before its body faded into nothingness. So far, the line was holding, but this battle was far from over.

* * *

"Targets spotted, moving to position," Uzse growled into his commlink. His HUD on his visor zoomed in on the targets, highlighting them for him.

The group was about one score strong, clad in robes and ghosting along the rocky mountainside, hovering over the gaps and crags that would have otherwise blocked their way. Uzse clacked his upper mandibles together in a frown as he watched them move. His jetpack could more than match what the Dark Elf and Illithid wizards were currently doing, but doing so would light him up like a torch before their heat seeing eyes. This mission would require stealth and proper timing.

He could not tell which of them was the most experienced, and therefore, the greater threat, but it seemed to him that according to the Drow's combat philosophy the most likely individual would be the one that was in the middle of the group, surrounded by his subordinates which could be directed as he wanted, or, if need be, as living shields.

"Follow me, brother," he whispered to N'tho. With their external speakers turned off, the two would appear like silent wraiths, communicating with each other on a level beyond the natural.

The two Rangers made their way up the side of the mountains, seeking an ideal alpha strike position.

"Targets at fifteen hundred meters and closing," N'tho stated.

"Roger, monitoring your progress with the UAVs," Cortana said to them.

"If this doesn't work, have the tanks redirect their fire onto their positions." Usze said. Cortana affirmed his call a second later.

The tanks had their hands full on crowd control, but the subsequent numbers of troops that would pour through the kill zone still had numerous lines of defense to push through. These casters were another story.

The two Elites went prone as the targets moved inside of fourteen hundred and fifty meters, bracing themselves against a large boulder. The cooling systems of their armor were working perfectly, and they would appear to be nothing more than oblong protrusions on the rock from the distance at which the Drow were at.

"Sync fire on the leader, sustain until target drops," Uzse said.

"Roger."

"Sync in three, two, one," the senior Ranger ticked off.

As one, the two squeezed the triggers on their particle rifles. A blue-white beam of ionized energy zipped out of the barrel, crossing the kilometer and a half distance between themselves and the target in a fraction of a second. The two beams hit six centimeters above one another, but failed to harm the wizard. A glowing ball of energy leapt outwards around him. Two more rounds impacted, but still the shield held. A sphere of darkness enveloped him, obscuring the vision of the two Sangheili snipers. They fired a third and a fourth time in rapid succession, the improved cooling systems of the mark two rifles keeping the weapon from overheating. A fifth volley entered the battle of darkness as the Illithids and the rest of the Dark Elves scattered, levitating, or in some cases, shifting to the Ethereal plane as they attempted to evade the fire from their adversaries.

The ball dissipated, and only then did the two soldiers see the cooling hunks of meat that had once been a Drow Wizard.

"Target one down, moving to new position to evade counter attack!" Uzse barked as he and N'tho got up and began to run along the rocks.

"Targets have shifted to Ethereal, prepping countermeasures!" N'tho stated, slinging his particle rifle over his back and drawing his plasma rifle. The longarmed energy weapon had had a GDS system bolted onto it, and the Elite was currently loading a grenade into it. The object looked different from a standard round, with the warhead part of the grenade almost looking as if it had been carved out of some kind of blue crystal.

It was another of Cortana's creations, one of approximately two-dozen that she had been able to craft over the past couple of days. Within the crystal were powerful arcane elements that would create a temporary anti-magic zone upon the destruction of the crystal. The construct wasn't entirely satisfied with the result, however, as the crystals were heavier than the standard grenade rounds that the GDSs had been designed for, resulting in a shorter optimum range.

A trio of lightning bolts impact the area that the two Rangers had just occupied, followed by a series of fireballs and glacial ice raining from the sky. Smoke and steam hissed in the rain as the spells destroyed the immediate area around the boulder, turning the rock itself into a half slagged pile of molten lava. Usze fired his particle rifle as he moved, picking off the wizards that were still on the Material Plane and had weaker defenses.

N'tho, meanwhile, judged the distance between himself and the targets on his HUD, factoring in wind speed, atmospheric conditions, and the approximate travel time of the grenade. In just a matter of seconds his foes would be in range of his grenade, and then it would be time to resume the slaughter. The younger Ranger growled softly, his four mandibles twitching behind his helmet. He focused his attention on the squid faced Illithids. The mind flayers would be the most dangerous target, now that the lead wizard was down. Their psionics would allow them mental communication on a level that rivaled that of the Neo Covenant forces and the UNSC, giving them the ability to adapt to a situation that their Dark Elven allies simply couldn't match.

He raised his rifle, and fired as they crossed into maximum range.

"AM grenade is airborne," he announced as he switched back over to his particle beam rifle.

"Roger, I see it," Cortana responded. "UAV is tracking. Impact in two."

As the crystalline device sailed in and detonated, the magic contained within came to life. Anti-magic spells flared and rendered any enchantment within a twenty-meter area ceased to be. Robes that were enspelled to be as powerful and protective as the most potent of dragonscale became ordinary silk. Blades that could cleave through rock and pendants that could channel the fury of the Weave became nothing more than trinkets and ordinary weapons. And those who traveled the ethereal planes suddenly found themselves yanked back onto the Prime.

"Targets viable, fire for effect!" Usze said as he sighted up the first target, a Mind Flayer that seemed somewhat larger than its comrades.

The beam crossed the distance between shooter and target almost instantly. The Illithid barely had time enough to realize that it was no longer safe from its hidden foes before the beam tore into its chest. Its heart, lungs, bones, and flesh were flash-vaporized and there was suddenly a hole in its torso large enough to fit a basketball through. The four tentacles around its mouth flailed widely and its eyes bulged as it slumped to the ground. Its last vision was of more of its comrades joining it in death as blue white streaks raked through the group.

"Illithids down, switching to Drow," N'tho stated calmly as he ran up the steep slope, seeking a better firing position as he tried to site up which of the targets would be the best ones to strike at.

Back at the command group, Lord Nasher continued to survey the battlefield through his binoculars. A frown marred his face as he observed the melee down below. The majority of the Drow army and their unholy allies were being stalled by the fortified defenses, but there were still issues that kept cropping up. While initially there had been only a few scattered incursions by the enemy, some of them seemed to be catching on. Groups of wizards and Demons were popping in among the lines with increasing frequency, and lady Alustriel could not keep her wards up, or cover enough of the battlefield to keep them all contained.

* * *

There was a sudden crack, and the next thing that the Lord of Neverwinter was aware of was of a great weight slamming into him. The binoculars went flying from his hands as he was smashed into the ground and something whistled overhead.

"Incursion, incursion among the command group!" He heard a voice shout through a tactical comm. system. Sounded as if it was Sir Neville.

Lord Nasher looked up, reaching for his sword as he saw a group of Dark Elves and Illithids in front of him. They appeared to be elite troops, judging by the adamantine plate armor that they were wearing, and that they were all females. They bore the mantel of House Baenre, and their red eyes spoke promises of death and worse. His guards rushed forward to protect him, while to his left, a great, resounding roar shook the area, rattling his bones. Lotar was on the move. The massive Lek'golo broke into a run, bending down and bringing its massive shield down in front of it. Around it, Drow soldiers attempted to dive out of the way and move to flank, but there were some that underestimated the speed at which the mighty Hunter could move. One such Dark Elf, an officer by the look of her equipment, looked as if she were going to attempt to vault into the air, possibly in an attempt to land on the creature's shoulders.

Lotar lashed out with his shield, smashing the female dead on. The one thousand kilogram device shattered every bone in her body and sent her catapulting through the air as if she'd been hurled by a Fire Giant. Another such Drow made a dive, slipping underneath the massive shield, only to find herself crushed beneath the Lek'golo as it raised its armored leg and smashed it into the ground. This was followed by a high pitched whine as Lotar's fuel rod cannon charged up. The green white beam screamed through the air a moment later, striking the Drow that were on the outer edges of the combat group. They were vaporized before they even had a chance to scream.

The rest of the guard fared less well as Lord Nasher was helped to his feet. Bolts, magically enchanted to have their heads sharpened beyond the craft of ordinary smiths, were launched from tiny handheld crossbows and punched through the mithril armor of the first ranks. Neville took one in the gut, standing in front of his lord and leader, but found the strength to fight through the pain and let out a defiant scream, daring the Dark Elves to come to their deaths and be slaughtered. Another one, Chelsie, took a bolt through the throat and slumped to the ground as she attempted to cross swords with one of the Underdark soldiers.

There was a second crack, and he saw another group teleporting in. This one was even larger, and had a number of Grey Dwarves and larger Minotaurs in it. The Lord of Neverwinter shouted a curse, and quickly informed Cortana of the situation.

"Roger that, I see them," the A. I. Responded. "I'll see what I can do. Redirecting HPMG fire to the outer fringes, and vectoring a Specter onto your location."

"Make it quick!" Lord Nasher said.

He remembered the sidearm that he carried, and reached down for the large pistol. He aimed it at a Drow cleric who seemed to be in the midst of casting a spell and pulled the trigger twice. An arcane shield flared to life around her as the high caliber round smashed against it and detonated. Growling to himself, the Lord of Neverwinter kept firing, remembering that the pistol carried twelve rounds in its clip. At round four, the shield seemed to falter. When the sixth round hit, the faint bubble vanished, and he smiled in triumph as the cleric finished waving her hands and pain shot through him. He screamed in agony as every nerve in his body seemed to light up as if it were aflame. As he did so, his fingers twitched and squeezed the trigger twice more.

As Lord Nasher slumped to his knees, he saw the cleric suddenly fly to pieces as if struck by the wrath of Tyr himself, while a cacophonous bang accompanied the flying body parts. The remnants of his Nine formed a circle around him as the Drow pressed forward. Two of the Nine drew submachine guns and fired bursts of high powered rounds into their ranks. It pierced their armor and tore hunks of flesh from their bodies, shredding their internal organs, while HPMG fire racketed through the group and ripped a trio of Minotaurs to pieces.

Lotar roared again and leveled its massive cannon. An entire squad of troops were slain in an instant, followed swiftly by the wizards launching fireballs and lightning bolts against the Hunter. Lotar's armor, though, was designed to withstand firepower that could destroy a UNSC tank, and it easily shrugged off the arcane attacks, firing another shot into the enemy ranks, removing those that it could. Then they were too mixed in with the surface natives that it was supposed to be protecting. It would need to resort to melee combat.

Fortunately, Hunters were excellent close combat fighters as well. Lotar rushed forward, shrugging off psionic attacks from the Illithids that were present and slamming into their lines like a rampaging Tarasque. The ranks of the enemy soldiers scattered like bowling pins in a desperate attempt to put distance between themselves and whatever this armored hell knight was. Some were more successful than others, and a few brave souls sought to flank the beast, thinking to strike it from behind.

They could not understand that what they were dealing with was a creature so alien to them, so unlike anything that they had dealt with, that flanking was of no use. The thousands of symbiotic lifeforms that made up Lotar's collective being sensed their footsteps, and the creature would have smiled if it had had a face. As the Dark Elves charged in, the eight spines of Lotar's armor suddenly sprung up and out, twisting around before they dove in. The lead Drow was impaled through her throat, while her closes companion's last sight was that of a massive spike descending towards her head. The third Dark Elf stopped short of the range of the spines and lashed out with two swords, slamming them against the armored spikes with all of her strength. They gave a resounding chink, and bounced off without so much as a scratch. Seeing that her attack had been ineffective, the Dark Elf leapt backwards, attempting to put distance between herself and the beast that she fought.

Her decision was wise, but she was not fast enough to evade the counter attack. Lotar blurred around, his shield perfectly level with her body. She was struck hard, and her broken body sailed through the air, crashing to earth a hundred feet away. The Hunter clamped its spines down, sending more of them into the bodies on its back, before violently separating the appendages. The corpses were torn to pieces, and gore dripped down off of the back of the massive beast, mixing with the rain to make it look as if a river of blood flowed from its back.

Lotar let out another roar and spread his spines wide, before jumping back into the melee. Few people unfamiliar with the capabilities of a Lek'golo would have ever guessed that such a being was even capable of jumping, let alone the distances that it could. Two foes, a Dark Elf and a Gray Dwarf, were crushed beneath the Hunter as it slammed into the earth, its large bulk causing the ground itself to shake. All around it, people staggered and struggled to recover their balance. The Hunter took full advantage of this, striking with its shield and using its fuel rod cannon as a club.

Lord Nasher prepared himself for the fight of his life as he stared around, and prepared himself for death. Bullets and plasma weapons still raked into the enemy forces, but more were coming. In front of him, Sir Neville was still on his feet, and forced both of the blades of his adversary away from him before slamming a mithril plated fist into her face. Bones could be heard crunching and the Dark Elf went down. Only to have another fighter immediately step up and fill her place. Nasher saw an opening, and ducked down, firing his pistol underneath Neville's upraised arms. It slammed into the Dark Elf's gut, and penetrated her armor like it was parchment. The depleted uranium round exploded a split second later, ripping her body in half and showering everyone with gore.

Another being teleported in, resembling a male Drow, but Nasher felt there was something different about this Dark Elf. His thoughts were interrupted as the being smiled and extended his arms. Four of the Nine were suddenly catapulted into the air flying off, screaming as gravity reclaimed its hold upon them and they descended towards the surface of Faerun. Lord Nasher took a step back, as did sir Neville and the other two of his bodyguards that were still left.

The being smirked again, and laughed, before letting out a roar that could not possibly have been from the mouth of a mortal. Bones cracked, and in the blink of an eye, the form of the man shifted. Where once there had been an elf, now there stood a sixty foot long black dragon. Its eyes burned white with rage and hate, and acid dripped from fangs as long as a man's arm. Neville stood his ground, ready to die to protect his lord, his face twisted into a mask of pain as blood oozed out of the crossbow wound in his stomach.

The dragon's head lunged forward like a striking snake and the valiant knight never even had time to scream before he was torn apart like a hunk of meat. Nasher said a silent prayer as he raised his pistol and fired the remainder of the magazine at the beast. The obsidian wyrm had not anticipated that a weapon wielded by a mere Human could give it such a sting, and recoiled as chunks of flesh were blasted out of its body. Snarling, it began to inhale, and Nasher knew that it was preparing to launch a stream of acid that would eat through his armor and turn his body into a puddle of unidentifiable liquids on the ground. He ejected the magazine from his pistol, and loaded another one. If this thing was going to kill him, he at least intended to leave it with a few scars to remember him by.

He leveled the M6D and lined the pistol up with the dragon's large eye. There might be a chance that the high explosive round could tear through the eye and the explosive payload onboard could rip into the brain. At the very least, rendering it temporarily half blind would be a crippling blow to the creature.

It opened its mouth, and Nasher saw the stream, darker even than the dragon that was spitting it, start to move towards him. He fired one round, and resigned himself to a painful, if swift, death.

Another object moved, massive and hulking, shifting itself in front of him. It was Lotar. The Hunter took the stream of acid head on, shielding the Lord of Neverwinter with its armored body.

"Specter-Zero-One, they need you there yesterday!" he heard Cortana scream over the mike.

"Moving as fast as we can ma'am, getting support calls everywhere!" was the response.

Nasher understood the problem. The teleporting Demons and Dark Elves would require that the high-speed units like the Specters and the Warthogs would be needed everywhere. He, ultimately, was not necessary to the survival of the free peoples of the surface. Keeping as many guns on the advancing army as possible was.

The stream of acid ended, and Lord Nasher looked up, ready to do what he could to avenge Lotar.

Only to find that there was little avenging that would be necessary. The Hunter roared, and leveled its fuel rod gun with the dragon's head. There was a green flash, and an unearthly boom. When the light cleared, Nasher looked around the massive armored form and saw that the Dragon's head had been blown off, and most of its neck vaporized by raw power of Lotar's weapon.

"This position is no longer secure. Recommend evacuation of Lord Nasher and surviving members of the Nine," Lotar rumbled.

"Agreed. Diverting Pelican number two to that position. Hold for ten," Cortana said.

"What about Lotar?" Nasher asked. He wasn't sure if the Hunter could fit inside the Pelican. As he spoke, the beast turned and fired its arm cannon one more time. The ranks of the enemy were now scattering, as it seemed that the dragon's death was having a rather negative effect upon their morale. The creature turned, and then the Lord of Neverwinter saw that the attack had not been totally shrugged off. Its shield was pockmarked and full of deep pits, while the front of Lotar's armor plating was discolored, faded to a pale gray. Steam from the dissolved metal floated off of the enormous creature and Nasher was unsure if it would survive another such barrage, to say nothing of what would happen if the Hunter was ever to be caught unawares and get splashed by such an acid before it could withdraw completely into its armored shell.

"We will make our own way," the Lek'golo rumbled.

Nasher nodded as he threw himself into one of the Pelican's seats and strapped himself in. The door closed behind him, and the last thing that he saw through the porthole before the gunship blasted into the air was the Lek'golo turning and firing off another barrage before it began to hobble towards the defensive trenches.

* * *

"What is the news from our fronts?"

The voice belonged to Matron Baenre herself. The withered Drow matron tapped her fingers together as she sat on her hovering throne deep underneath the tunnels of Mithril Hall. Her crimson gaze was narrowed at Methil, her Illithid companion who acted as the emissary between the two races. His tentacles twisted back and forth in agitation, as if he was irritated with something. Then his voice entered her mind, cool and liquid like.

_"Matron Hesken-P'aj Symryvvin is reporting trouble in the tunnels, and Gromph is reporting heavy casualties and little progress on the surface. The surface dwellers are putting up a surprising amount of resistance, and they are employing weapons that spit fire and summon thunder."_The Mind Flayer said.

The head of House Baenre narrowed her eyes until they were nothing more than red slits. Her wrinkled face became a mask of displeasure and barely controlled anger. The will of Lolth demanded that the surface be conquered in her name, and conquered it would be. She knew, though, that there would be blood shed for these delays. Her lips pressed together, and at last she opened her mouth.

"Connect me to those two," she said.

Methil nodded his head, and in a moment, the old woman's mind was joined to her son and the other Matron. Matron Hesken stood surrounded by a number of high priestesses, pouring over a map drawn in special heat reflective ink. She was issuing orders to her subordinates, who were in turn attempting to relay them telepathically to the troops fighting in the tunnels. Matron Baerne felt a rise of irritation in her mind, as though the anger and frustration of the other Matron was filtering over into her mind.

Hesken stiffened suddenly, and realized that she was not alone in her mind, that the leader of all Menzoberranzan was within her head.

_"My Lady,"_she said with a small voice. Baenre could feel the fear in her. She was failing.

_"Matron Hesken, you are a veteran of a dozen House conflicts, could you please explain to me why you have not smashed the Dwarven defenses?" _

_"Matron Baenre, the enemy is more numerous than we anticipated, and they fight—" _

_"You outnumber the Dwarves and their wretched allies more than a hundred to one!" _the Dark Elf roared within her mind. _"You have at your disposal the best of all the Underdark. You have some of my own troops at hand. By all that Lolth deems holy, you should have swept the Dwarves aside like they were insects!" _

_"I know, Matron Baenre. I know. But at every turn we are assaulted by strange soldiers armed with stranger weapons. The fight us with devices that can slay dozens before they can even get close to the target, move like wraiths, and at least one of them has stood toe to toe with a Balor and its host and crushed _it_!" _

_"So send more than one Balor," _The head of House Baerne was tempted to roll her eyes. How could someone that foolish claw her way to the top of a House, let alone one of the Eight? She shook her head and continued. _Find a way to move forward and crush the opposition. If this one foe is too much for your… abilities to handle, then flank around it and attack a weaker position. Once we take the Undercity, we can turn the Dwarves own defenses against them. I want our wizards teleporting reinforcements inside of that place within two hours." _

She let the rest of the message go unsaid. Matron Hesken knew enough of the ways of Lolth to understand that never before had she failed the Spider Queen, she would nevertheless only be allowed to fail once. Perhaps the thought of an eternity of torture in the Abyss at Lolth's hands would be enough motivation for the Matron to get things moving.

Now, she had to deal with her son. Typical male, always bungling things.

The mind of her son opened up to her and before her stretched the hills and valleys that lay outside of the massive gates of the Hall. Gromph was closer to the action that Matron Hesken had been, though he was still some miles off, surveying the battle before him by means of a scrying spell. From her position within his mind, the ancient Drow had a front row seat to the carnage that raged unchecked across the surface. Within the sky hung glowing stars shooting up from the mountain, illuminating her forces to the night blind Humans. Then, before her eyes, there was a flash of fire and she saw troops engulfed in flame and ones beyond that shredded into piles of flesh.

The Matron of House Baenre raised her eyebrows slightly as she looked on at the sight. Her eyes peered through the torrential downpour that now coated the landscape in a deepening field of mud. More flashes sprang up near other troops, and before her eyes, entire companies were ripped apart by whatever weapon the defenders had unleashed. She was unaware of any Human magi that would have that kind of power, and briefly wondered what could be the cause of the damage.

Gromph was apparently aware of her prying into his mind, because he began to sweep his scrying along to other areas of the battle. She saw lines of slave troops pressed against the ground, crawling through rivers of blood and over and around piles of bodies. Mere inches above their heads, white hot bolts flew past, moving so swiftly that the Drow Matron could scarcely believe such a velocity was possible, let alone that it could be generated at the speeds these strange weapons were creating them.

An Orc stood up and began to charge towards the lines, and almost before Gromph's scrying bowl could focus in on him, he was struck by some invisible force. Hot lifeblood blasted out of the corpse as the body was ripped in twain, the Orc's life snuffed out as if by the wrath of some deity. Up above, a young white dragon used its magic to teleport above the lines and began to dive, cold frost collecting around its jaws as it prepared to unleash its killing breath upon the defenders. Streaks of heat came from somewhere out near the horizon, and in the blink of an eye, the Dragon was rent asunder, its body shattered and reduced to giblets. Something flew by then, black against the night, like a living shadow. It was a blur to the Matron, visible only because of the heat that it was producing out of its back end. She caught a brief glimpse of its true form, like that of a widened arrowhead, before the object sailed towards the heavens, and was out of sight in the blink of an eye. A series of loud, booming shockwaves was all that was left in its wake.

Still Gromph remained silent, as if waiting for the shouting that he knew was coming, for the subtle threat against his life.

_"Gromph, have your wizards begin to summon elementals, try and use them to block the force of the weaponry the Dwarves and their allies are using. Instruct the Dragons to remain hidden among the normal troops and act as teleporters for our shock troops. The demons that can do so are to assist in this as well." _

_"As you command it, my Matron. Are there any other tasks that you require for me and my subordinates to perform?" _

_"What of your wizard strike teams?" _

_"Slaughtered almost to the last neophyte. A single survivor spoke of some hunter that could somehow evade our sight and render spells useless in the blink of an eye. It, or they, wiped them out, the Illithids as well." _

_"Prepare the next wave. Have them summon Umber Hulks. See if the brutes can burrow their way into the main entrance hall. Perhaps if we can evade these outer defenses we can open up yet a third front for the defenders to have to spread themselves over." _

_"As Lolth wills it." _

With the mental equivalent of a bow, Gromph began to carry out his orders. Still, for one of the few times in her millennia long life, Matron Baenre was ill at ease. She tapped her fingers in front of her nose and sat back against the marble backing of her hovering throne. Five of her twenty daughters milled around her, while a full company of her elite troops and a number of demons defended her person. Still, she was uneasy about the way that things were going. Her troops should have stormed over the Dwarves and their allies like a great flood. Yet they were stonewalled by arcane weaponry more powerful than anything she had seen before short of a God's wrath.

Was that it, then? Did some deity protect them? Had Moradin himself opened his armory and handed out weapons and artifacts? Or was this something else entirely?

Her thoughts drifted to what Brianna had shown her during the early stages of their plans, of the green armored fiend that had slaughtered the Orcs at will, and shortly thereafter, presumably the High Priestess herself. There was something new here, something that she, in all her centuries of life, had never before borne witness to. She didn't like it. Still, she would not despair, she would adapt. She would find a hole in their defenses and crush them.

"Methil, send word to Gromph that the cavalry and the slave troops are to spread out and attempt to flank the primary defensive lines of the surface forces. Have wizards and clerics begin to summon other monsters, and use them as distractions and shields for the rest of our forces." She said, casting a glance at the Mind Flayer.

Methil nodded, and his tendrils twitched slightly round his fang filled mouth.

The Matron of the mightiest house in all the Underdark relaxed a little then. She had underestimated the defenses that the Dwarves would mount. Nothing more than that. They would be crushed, and soon, the surface world would be theirs. From there, all of Faerun, and then all of Torril itself, would slowly be shackled and broken before them. All would acknowledge that the Drow were supreme and destined to rule this world. As the mortals were broken and bent to Lolth's will, her power would grow, and that of the other gods and goddesses would wane until they were naught but faint memories, powerless fools who would either submit themselves before the Spider Queen, or be destroyed and their spirits cast out into the Astral Sea.

Yes, yes, a minor setback, that was all this was. All grand plans had them. Once inside the hall, her superior forces would overwhelm the Dwarves, and that would be that.


	30. Chapter 29: Introduce a Little Anarchy

Hello once again everyone. Let me once again apologize for not responding to reviews like I normally do, and for this once again taking fourteen forevers to get up and running. Things have been pretty hectic lately, mostly on account of passing my Bar exam (I'm actually due to be sworn in tomorrow). So hurrah, there's soon to be one more soul sucking lawyer in the world. Assuming you don't all give me a well deserved beat down for the delays in uploading.

As usual, I hope that this particular chapter is up to snuff, and that it's not a trainwreck. Best wishes to you all, and hopefully, I'll be able to find more time to proof and modify these chapters as needed. I will also apologize again if it gets a tad too... graphic. My intent was to show the horror of war and what "modern" weapons do to people, but as is typical of me, I probably over did it abit.

Still, hope it's at least somewhat enjoyable, and thank you all for taking the time to read it.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Nine- Introduce A Little Anarchy**

* * *

Wulfgar stared out at the battleground that the land in front of him had become. The stench of death and fire was thick and heavy in the air, and the Plainsman narrowed his eyes. He stood waist deep in a trench, behind a maze of coiled razor wire and a deep pit that hugged the outer flanks of the defenses. Aegis Fang hung at his side, while in his hands he carried a scoped MA5B. The cold rain pelted his body and soaked him to the bone, but adrenaline kept him from feeling the biting chill and kept his mind focused on the Drow and their fiendish allies.

"They're moving around us."

He looked over to see Revajik there, leaning heavily on his spear. The aging Barbarian king had insisted on being down in the thick of the battle with his people, in order to give the 'southerners' a proper idea of how a king lead his forces. Wulfgar worried for his mentor's safety, but knew in his heart that nothing could have deterred the elderly man for taking a stand like this.

This kind of epic battle was the stuff of legends. Any member of the Tribe of the Elk would be willing, some even eager, to die in a battle of this nature. In the back of his mind, Wulfgar was aware that things could still go wrong, that they might all wind up dead. So far the defenses had held and beaten the Dark Elves and their slaves back, but all that could change. One slip up, one careless miscalculation, and it would all be over. He had watched Drizzt in action to know that with most Drow, your first mistake was your last.

Even so, there was comfort to be taken, grim though it might be, over the casualties that had been inflicted. The young man suspected that the battlefield was littered with tens, if not hundreds of thousands of corpses. Even if they won, the Drow would not soon forget how costly this battle was.

"Cortana, what is the status of the underground battle?" Revajik asked, speaking into a tactical communicator that was looped over his ear.

"Going well so far. Drow assaults towards the Undercity are being pushed back, and they've taken heavy causalities trying to brute force their way past the fifties. I've calculated approximately forty three thousand, two hundred and fifty six kills among their forces. Of those, about one quarter are actually Drow soldiers. The rest are slaves or demons."

"I see," Revajik said, before rubbing a hand across his chin. "I'd hoped for more."

"It takes the Drow decades to replace a soldier lost in battle. We've probably killed more tonight than inter-house warfare has in the past half millennium," Wulfgar spoke up.

"Correct," Cortana stated. "By the way, I'd get ready. The Drow look like they're about to start attempting flanking maneuvers."

Wulfgar nodded his head, and brought his rifle up to his shoulder.

"Make yourself ready, my soldiers," Revajik said, raising his spear into the air. "The enemy draws nigh. Let us send them scurrying back into their dark holes!"

A hearty cheer went up among the Barbarian troops, and they prepared themselves for war. Wulfgar looked twenty paces to his right, where one of their younger warriors stood behind a heavy machine gun, tracking the enemy through his optical sighting on his helmet. Wulfgar nodded in approval. The young man was alert. Wise. Very wise.

In the distance, Wulfgar heard a faint roar, and looked over to see, about two miles distant, the hilltop upon which Lord Nasher stood. A moment of fear filled him as he watched a massive black dragon unleash a torrent of acid.

"No!" he hissed, tightening his grip upon his weapon.

A bright lance of green cut through the stormy night, and he realized that the Hunter that had been protecting Lord Nasher had unleashed the terrible fury of its fuel rod cannon upon its adversary. One shot was all it took, and the dragon fell dead.

"Remind me never to anger one of those things," Revajik muttered, "and try to find out how they make those… cannons," he stumbled over the foreign word for a moment.

Wulfgar nodded, noting that a Pelican came in and picked up the Lord of Neverwinter and his remaining guards. Then he noticed that there were other troops, moving against the background. Drow cavalry. He brought his scope up to his eye, looking through the telescopic device. A laser based rangefinder on the left side of his rifle pinged the enemy troops at being approximately fourteen hundred 'meters' distant from where he was. It was outside of the effective range of his rifle, but not the machine guns, and both the one next to him, and another further down the line, tracked their movements.

They held their fire though. Like the front trenches, the flanking ones were surrounded with large numbers of traps, and those would be most effective if the Dark Elves hit them as a single unit. Only then would the machine guns try chewing them to pieces. Just as well, he supposed. He remembered the tales that Drizzt told of his people. The cavalry was the elite force of the Underdark, the Drow's most feared and vicious fighters.

"All defensive units remain alert. Enemy troops are beginning to teleport in with increasing frequency. Priority targets remain Balors, Malariths, and Glabrezu, in that order," he heard Cortana speak into his tactical comm.

The huge muscles of Wulfgar's arms tightened into knots, and more adrenaline began to flow as he felt the battle draw close. He peered down the scope of his rifle yet again, noting the cavalry turning towards them. He remembered the details of the defenses of this region. At the rate they were traveling, they'd hit the traps in a matter of seconds.

Nine hundred meters out, the first traps went off. Well disguised pits opened up into yawning chasms, swallowing whole sections of troops. Their screams were lost to the noise of battle, but Wulfgar knew that the sharpened spikes down below would be the death of many. Some of them, Dark Elven nobles, he supposed, reacted fast enough to levitate themselves up, slicing through their harnesses on their lizards as they did so. Others attempted it, but were not fast enough. The straps of leather that were meant to keep them on their cave lizard when the creature was crawling along walls or up on roofs betrayed them, sentencing them to a horrid death.

Still they pressed on, trying to obey the orders that they had been given and spread themselves out. As they evaded or moved past the pits, they ran into the next stage of the defenses. Ground pressure and vibrations set off hidden mines. Some of them exploded on the ground, ripping apart the mounts of the cavalry, while others sprang up into the air and exploded at chest height.

The noise of the explosions drove some of the mounts into a blind panic, and their riders struggled to control them in the chaos. Cavalrymen and women smashed into one another, mounts collided got tangled up into a hissing ball of fangs and claws. Still others who by luck or skill avoided the minefields found themselves subject to the Harpell Clan's ingenious, if eccentric, arcane traps. Wulfgar watched as a bolt shot up through the ground, impaling the foot of a lizard. The creature reared back to hiss, only to freeze as the spells of a petrifaction spell took hold, and turn the creature into a statue. The Rider gave a cry of alarm, and hurriedly worked to free himself.

Another group, led by a Dark Elven officer, rushed headlong into an area defended by a time delayed fireball spell. A ten-meter wide burst of raw heat engulfed them. Those at the center were vaporized or blown to pieces by the flames or the concussion of the blast, while those on the outer reaches of the spell flailed about horridly as fire ate at their flesh and hair. Others stumbled into pits of acid that had been hidden along the ground.

Those who managed to get past those and get to within seven hundred meters faced a final challenge. As they entered that range, they crossed another hidden barrier, and found themselves in yet another minefield, this one filled with incendiaries. Phosphoric and thermite based flames filled the air as they detonated. Now it was the Drow who learned the horror of these weapons. The water that fell from the sky did nothing but spread the fire and fill the air with steam that cooked flesh off of the bones of the attackers.

"Support, can we get a little bit of light over here?" Revajik asked.

"Copy that, flares inbound. Hold ten," Cortana replied.

Just as the construct said, within a few seconds, the battlefield was as brightly lit as it would have been under a noonday sun. Screams of agony came from the Drow as their sensitive eyes were assaulted, and many thrashed about, clutching at their eyes. Some dropped spheres of darkness over themselves, trying to block out the hateful light, but they found themselves trapped within the sphere, unable to move forward out of fear of scorching fury of multiple flares. Some Drow were smarter, and opted instead to drop the spheres over the flares themselves, buying themselves and their comrades a measure of reprieve from the burning light.

A few of them broke ranks, trying to make their way all the way around the edge of the trenches and completely flank the defenders. There was only one attempt at this as Cortana, ever watchful, blasted the group with a burst of canister rounds from the tanks. A trio of plasma mortars fell after that, enveloping anything that had survived the tanks' fury.

Wulfgar wondered when there would be another missile volley. He knew that the Avenger had to be reloaded by this time. What was Cortana waiting on?

In truth, the answer was simple. The A.I. construct watched the battlefield. She observed the patterns that the attackers were using when they gathered together before initiating a teleport. Lady Alustriel had done a good job in erecting her wards and spreading the message to other magi that were present to begin doing the same. Cortana estimated that approximately sixty percent of the battlefield was now immune to teleportation action, while most of the remaining areas were directly in front of the 'meat grinders': the area of overlapping fields of fire that the HPMGs and automatic grenade launchers covered. This left about ten percent of the battlefield that the defenders occupied that was vulnerable, most of it scattered in random pockets. However, the Drow seemed to be aware of this, and as a result, they were grouping themselves together in ever larger formations in an attempt to make the incursion successful and destroy the defenses from behind. Others were trying to invoke their power to destroy the wards themselves, teleporting in as close as they could and attempting to knock them out of action.

The solution, she theorized, was to wait for the groups to begin approaching a hypothetical maximum, ensuring maximum casualties among the attackers, particularly among their wizards and demons. Once most of those were dealt with, all that would be left would be melee-based troops, who could be dealt with with almost complete immunity.

That hypothetical maximum was almost upon them. The A.I. watched with every eye she could spare on the enemy forces. For someone of her speed and processing capacity, each second was as long as a lifetime, and she began to predict the possible confrontations that would await the troops down below, and the odds of them occurring. As the ranks were depleted, the Drow would likely grow more and more desperate, and began launching more audacious assaults…

Something caught her attention on one of the UAV's. Beings of earth began to rise up out of the ground, and she did the computer equivalent of nodding her head. Elementals. Embodiment of the four traditional elements of old 'science' they were capable of taking enormous amounts of punishment. She saw them press forward, absorbing bullets meant for the more vulnerable troops, acting as living shields to allow for enemy breakthroughs. At the same time, she noticed more wizards and Illithids teleporting themselves elsewhere, and scanned around to find out where they would pop up, so she could direct support onto them. They did not, however, teleport themselves into the lines of defenders, but rather, to a spot just outside of the wards. They came in on the rocks and cliffs that overlooked the great doors leading into the heart of Mithril Hall. And they had brought a little something extra with them: Umber Hulks.

"They're going to tunnel through the rock," she muttered to herself. "Clever bastards."

Once the Illithids got a look inside the Hall's main entrance, they could relay the image to the other clerics and mages that were present, and from there, strike teams and shock troops could be moved directly into the Hall itself, bypassing the outer defenses. Of course, there was a hell of a reception committee on the inside of the door, but Cortana would rather than be a nasty surprise that the Drow not know about until it was too late.

She remotely controlled the Rhino tank, redirecting its powerful cannon and taking aim at the largest cluster of the creatures, while at the same time pulling up and reviewing the geoscopic analysis of the rock around the Hall's entrance, seeing what route would likely be taken so that she could alert interior defense teams of likely incursion points.

The first round erased half of the Umber Hulks, and their Drow handlers, from the face of Faerun. The Drow, as she was learning, were quick to try and adapt. Shields were erected to cover the burrowing creatures, and Cortana did some quick mental calculations. Firing too many tank shells wouldn't be a viable solution. The power behind the Rhino's cannon might collapse the entrance, and the Scorpions, Pelicans, and the Longsword ran into the same problem. The Valykrie missiles would be better spared annihilating ground troops, and the Avenger's larger missiles had the same issues as were associated with the rail cannons.

What to do? What to do? She found herself longing for even one tube of TH-138 that she knew was in the Dawn's restricted armories. Still, couldn't use that. Usze and N'tho were out of range. The construct frowned again, before eventually deciding that a few mortar strikes would perhaps be necessary. She radioed in the coordinates, and the UNSC mortars launched first, followed by three plasma mortars.

The first two devices ripped into the shields, but the arcane defenses held. Then came the plasma mortars. The blue white blobs of energy smashed into the ground, and the temperatures spiked to over eight thousand degrees. Shields that were weakened by the shrapnel and concussion of the first strike held for mere microseconds before they failed. When the fire cleared, there was nothing left but ash and a few patches of glass and molten rock. Score another one for the good guys.

It wouldn't be the last incursion attempt, though. The Drow would try again, and they would think of something new that she would have to try and counter. It was imperative that she cripple their numbers as quickly as possible. As the mortars began to once more fall among the ranks of the surprised and huddled slave troops, she reopened her channel to the Avenger's crew.

"Send in the second wave to these coordinates," she said, relaying the targeting data to the vehicles computer.

"Coordinates received, launching second wave," the Sangheili commander responded.

Back on the field of battle, Wulfgar felt his blood begin to roar in his ear. The Drow cavalry forces were finally making their way through all the traps, and were within six hundred meters. He resisted the instinctive urge to just hold down the trigger and unleash all the destructive fury of the assault rifle that he held. That would result in wasting precious ammo, and make his accuracy somewhat akin to a Goblin arrow volley at this range. Single shots or shot controlled bursts, nothing more than that.

His rangefinder pinged his first target at roughly five hundred and fifty meters, and adjusted his sights for bullet drop and wind speed. He exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. A half second later, the Drow was knocked out of her saddle, the leather straps snapping as the power of the round tore through her armor and ripped her off her mount. Wulfgar marveled for a single moment at the tremendous killing power of such a small weapon, and then sighted up his next target.

* * *

Far away, Gromph Baenre frowned as he looked down into his scrying bowl and tapped a finger to his chin. Flanking maneuvers were not working, as while the trenches of the defenders did not extend all the way around the entrance to Mithril Hall, they seemed to have the area trapped and those strange ballistae on the mountain killed any who tried to approach. The Elementals were lasting a little longer, but the surface Magi and the defenders strange weapons were still killing them, and his surface strike team had been killed. At least, he assumed they were, there was still an enormous amount of ambient heat coming off of where they had been trying to burrow into the Hall, and he couldn't see anything, not that the miniature suns that the defenders kept sending up were helping in that matter. He had lost mental contact though.

So much for plans B, C, and D. Fortunately, a sardonic side of his mind reminded him, there were still twenty-one other letters in the alphabet that he could work his way through. He tried to scry over the battlefield yet again, and see if he could find holes in the anti-teleportation wards that didn't drop the troops right in front of a murderous crossfire.

Something caught his eye, and he looked up from where he was standing. There were more streaks of heat on the horizon, and he narrowed his crimson eyes, wondering what they could have been. Those same eyes widened a fraction of a second later as he remembered what had happened when the battle had first commenced.

"Lolth's fangs!" he swore, and hastily enacted a spell. He vanished in an instant, leaving his companions dumbfounded.

They learned why their leader had been so hasty in beating a retreat half a second later, when an Atoll missile crashed right down amongst them. Their sole consolation was that such a death was quite quick. In fact, they did not even feel it.

Cortana smirked as she watched. She was aware that the apparent leader of the wizard group had gotten away, but his lieutenants were dead and gone. That and she had sent a very clear message with that strike: nowhere was safe.

As he reappeared at the other end of the dale, Gromph realized that he was just in time to watch the other strange weapons fall amongst his troops. Massive fireballs erupted, blinding him momentarily, and he swore silently as he realized that he was rapidly losing his mental connection with the higher ranking demons of his army. Those strikes were targeting them specifically. At the same time, he knew that thousands, if not many tens of thousands of his remaining troops had just been wiped out by a strike and he still had no idea what was causing that to happen, where it was, or more importantly, how many spells or charges—if it was an artifact of sorts—the thing or person had left.

_Status report. Who's still alive?_he asked.

Most of his Balors were still alive, though some had been ripped apart by the concussions of the blasts, and others killed by what survivors had described as flying metal fragments. Gromph arched an eyebrow at this. Were those strange things blast globes of a sort? Granted, he thought, as he looked out over the battlefield and his eyes settled on one newly formed crater that was more than six hundred feet wide, he was a blast globe of a caliber he'd never even thought possible. If that was the case, then it might be possible for his people to start making their own, provided he could get his hands on one and analyze it.

He needed to find out where they were coming from. At the same time, he also needed to salvage the situation here, or everything was going to go straight to Baator. He surveyed the carnage before him, and suspect already that as many of two thirds of his army, if not more than that, was dead or wounded beyond their ability to continue fighting. An idea came to him, two, actually, about how to solve the problems that were before him. The first was to check the far side of the mountain. It was possible that the defenders hadn't covered that one as well as the one around here. There would be more rock that his umber hulks would have to burrow their way through, but with the proper enchantments that would be dealt with. The major concern is that was not what his mother had wanted his troops to do.

While he feared her wrath should he disobey, he was more afraid of what she might do if he were to fail. Gromph intended to go down fighting if nothing else, and even though it might not be at the entrance of the mighty Hall, it would still open up another front and force the defenders to divide themselves yet again. Powerful though their weapons were, the Dwarves and their allies were only so many in number, and could not be everywhere at once.

The second plan was something that he remembered from his studies of the Humans and the other surface races. They tended to rally behind strong leaders, and devote an inordinate amount of time and effort to protecting these individuals should they come under assault. He had identified at least two thus far: the one buzzing around on the flying chariot above the battlefield, and the older Human that had been on top of that hill. He suspected that the latter was out of reach now, as when the attack had been repulsed by that massive thing that had been guarding him, he had loaded up into one of the spelljammers that the defenders had, and was now nowhere to be seen. He could still kill the one that was flying around in the air, but the trick would be actually remaining close enough to her that the defenders didn't use their magical weaponry to blast him to smithereens.

There might also be others among the troops that were down on the ground, and Gromph resolved then to find them as quickly as possible. Even if this assault failed, he might still be able to sufficiently demoralize them that another such battle would cause them to break, especially if reinforcements could be brought up to the surface or flooded into the Hall fast enough.

He set about his work, moving over to a nearby grove of trees that he hoped would shield him from the eyes of the enemy. They were small, scraggly things, but they didn't have to work for long, just long enough. Once there, he conjured up another scrying bowl and began observing. First priority went to searching the far side of the mountain, after that, he could begin seeking out leaders among the enemy forces.

It was as he'd hoped. The other side of the rocky slopes was not defended, and he could use the mountain itself as both a colossal shield and a blinder. He made contact with his remaining wizards and Illithids, and relayed the information to them. They were swift to comply with his orders, both out of fear of upsetting their commander, and in the knowledge that they were going to be getting a combat duty that was not quite as dangerous as what they would otherwise be doing.

That accomplished, he began to hastily scan the battlefield. If there was one flaw among the surface Elves, Humans, Dwarves, and the like, it was that their officers usually insisted on wearing fancier equipment than their subordinates. To Gromph's understanding, among less magically inclined races, this was supposed to help with identification in the chaos of a battle, but it also made them stand out like sore thumbs. Combined with another notion, the urge to get down and scrap it out with the rest of the troops, and you had a recipe for a nearly picture perfect decapitation attack.

The Dark Elf knew that they were out there, he simply had to track them down and then direct his forces onto their unsuspecting heads.

* * *

Cortana, meanwhile, was feeling quite satisfied with the level of carnage that had been unleashed. The Avenger had enough Atoll missiles left in reserve for one more volley, but she wanted to save that for a critical moment. It had served its primary purpose, though, and the among of devastation that she had unleashed upon the Underdark forces was nearly cataclysmic. She had to admit, though, that they were a very stubborn lot, and kept on fighting despite their losses. Was it courage though, or fear that kept them pressing up against the very jaws of death?

She noticed some activity on the ground. A number of wizards had teleported away from the battlefield, but had not reappeared amongst the holes in the wards. She ran probability calculations in the blink of an eye, and surmised that given known Drow operation parameters and social norms, there was approximately a one-point-five percent chance that they were fleeing the battle. That meant that a tactical flanking maneuver was in order. But where?

She frowned, and sent one of her UAVs over to survey the far side of the mountain. Sure enough, there was a group of them there, and yet more Umber Hulks that were burrowing into the rock. The Drow were casting some type of enlargement charm upon them as well, as these ones were the size of a bull elephant. She cross-referenced schematics of the mountain again, and deduced that at their current rate and their projected paths through the softer rock, that it would take them half an hour to burrow through to the first set of tunnels. There, they would again try to teleport forces into the Hall.  
There were almost no defenses up at those regions of the tunnels. She hadn't expected them to adapt this quickly. She had to make a decision, quickly, about what do to. The mountain blocked any line of sight attacks, and the location, some twelve kilometers away from the location of the mortar teams, ruled out an indirect strike. Troop transport was possible, but they would be needed to keep the still several tens of thousands strong main army suppressed and in the killing zone for the automatic weapons.

She could, however, vector assault teams and hunter killer units up to that region if she deployed them immediately. She thought about it for a few nanoseconds, running hundreds of scenarios and projected outcomes through her mind. She concluded that infantry to infantry battles would be the best for now, as while they would be able to penetrate with relative ease when they got a look inside of the tunnels, it was still an underground beachhead, and properly deployed, could keep them bottled up and contained.

"HK thirty five through HK forty seven, begin heading for the upper forges at the coordinates I'm sending, you'll be receiving company soon."

"Message received, ma'am, will comply," the voice of Drizzt Do'Urden came over the channel.

The Ranger had more hands on experience with his people than the rest of them put together. He would know what tactics were likely under what situation, and they defenders would be better able to compensate for unexpected enemy actions as a result. The whole time she had been observing the actions on the far side of the mountain, she had also been keeping a proverbial eye on what was going on below it and in front of the main gate. The majority of the Drow's heavy hitters on the surface were dead, and most of what was left of the army that had been nearly a million strong had been reduced to slave troops who huddled against the ground, fearful of raising their heads more than a centimeter off of the ground, lest a bullet take it off.

The Dark Elves, though, had kept on rallying to one another, and trying to salvage the situation they were in. Cortana had to admit that they were, if nothing else, very resilient. She noticed a cluster of them gathering together, probably to try for another flanking maneuver, as she didn't see any demons or anything that resembled a wizard among their numbers. She sent a coded burst command, and one of the Pelicans fired a missile. The Valykrie shrieked through the air before arcing down towards the group. A fraction of a second before it would have impacted the ground, its five hundred kilogram warhead detonated. Fire and shrapnel was blasted over the area, and she kept an electronic eye on the location, looking to see if there was anything hidden amongst the group that might have survived the blast.

Nothing.

At the other end of the field, Gromph finally believed that he had located a viable target of opportunity. He looked down and noticed an aging Barbarian warrior, clutching a large spear. He seemed to be shouting orders of encouragement to his fellows ad they blasted away at the ranks of the Dark Elves. Gromph knew with the people of the northern plains that the older warriors were, if not leaders, deeply respected in a spiritual sense for their wisdom and knowledge of combat. Best of all, there didn't seem to be a ward around this fellow. He had his first target, and relayed the information to his surviving shock troops.

* * *

Wulfgar growled as he took the head off yet another Drow soldier. He had practiced with these weapons before, but using them against a living target on the field of battle gave him a newfound respect, and a newfound fear of them. It was becoming all too easy to understand why Drizzt held the fear of these that he did, as well as his distaste for the other weapons that the offworlders had in their arsenal. How many hundreds of thousands now lay dead before the wrath of the Atoll missile barrages, the tanks, and the mortars?

And, he was forced to remind himself, this was but one small, underpowered force that had lost most of its fighting assets before it had even arrived to their world. What would have happened if it had been the whole crew of the Dawn? Thousands strong, with dozens of their techo-jammer craft and tanks…

One thing was sure, he thought to himself as he took the head off of another cavalry woman, things would never be the same. Warfare as Faerun knew it was going to be changed forever.

"Incoming teleporters!" Cortana's voice was loud in his ear.

Immediately, the young Plainsman turned around to see behind him. The demons and Drow were smart. They would come in from behind, rather than willingly stick themselves in front of the massive machine guns and grenade launchers of the UNSC military. His foes did not disappoint. They appeared with a flash, a single Drow wizard and a host of Gray Dwarves. The foot soldiers were armed with axes and hammers, shields formed of mithril and spiked plate armor. They gave a shout and rushed towards the line. Wulfgar saw their eyes focus on Revajik, and he swore silently as he realized what had happened. The Dark Elves must have realized who and what his king was. His blue eyes narrowed and his lips spread in a manner similar to a wolf. He raised his rifle, noting that he had twenty shots left, and began to fire rapidly. He squeezed the trigger as quickly as he could, sending the NATO rounds deep into the Dwarven ranks. The bullets punch through their plate armor and out the other side. More gunfire joined, and within moment, the Dwarves were nothing more than corpses.

Then a fireball roared in.

"Down!" Wulfgar screamed at the top of his lungs, throwing himself on top of his king, shielding Revajik with his body. He felt the heat of the blast cause blisters to rise up on his back, and steam from vaporized rain water choked the battlefield. Rising up, he reached down and drew Aegis Fang from its place on his belt and drew sight on the wizard.

"Don't let up, keep firing!" He heard his king shout as he cocked his left arm back and hurled the mighty warhammer through the air.

The wizard, intent on casting his next spell, didn't see the missile coming at him until it was too late. Enchanted with some of the mightiest arcane spells on the face of the world, Aegis Fang ripped through the defenses the mage had raised, and crushed his chest in. The hammer started to fall, but then vanished, reappearing in the hand of its master. Wulfgar let it fall to the ground for the moment, and hastily reloaded the rifle. He suspected it would be only seconds before the next strike came in, and this time, there would be more of the enemy, and less of his people.

He caught sight of burnt and charred corpses of nearly two dozen Plainsmen on the ground, and prayed for their souls to make the journey to the halls of their forefathers. Some of the dead had been manning heavy weapons emplacements, and survivors rushed to reclaim the weapons and get fire back on the cavalry, who had noticed the assault and the lull in the fire, and were now regrouping.

"Cortana, we are in need of aid," Revajik said, as he reached down behind his cloak and pulled out the weapon given to him, an ASG-60.

"I see that. Second wave of teleporters in-bound. I'll have the mortars give you some cover from the cavalry," the computer's voice was calm.

Above in the sky, Wulfgar watched as yet another White Dragon was shredded by the _Forward unto Dawn's_point defense cannons. He spoke silent thanks that those weapons were present. Bloody as they made this battle, the Dragons could have inflicted hellacious casualties if they were not deterred from taking to the skies.

Then the mortars began to fall. The Covenant plasma mortars glowed ominously as they streaked towards the ground, while the UNSC ones simply hit the ground and exploded, silent killers that gave no warning of their approach. The effects among the cavalry was catastrophic. Whole lines and formations disappeared into sprays of blood and flesh. Wulfgar barely noticed. He had heeded Cortana's warning of a second wave of teleporters, and stood ready to defend his Lord, his rifle in his hands, and Aegis Fang at his feet, ready to appear at a moment's notice and carry out his bidding.

This time it was three wizards, and in addition to Gray Dwarves, there were Orcs, Goblinoids, and a handful of minotaurs. He sighted up the nearest wizard, remembering all too well the fireball the last one had sent at them. His weapon roared as he sent a four round burst at the Dark Elf. The shields flickered and died, and another such burst blew him apart. He must have been a lesser wizard, Wulfgar mused to himself.

To his side, Revajik raised his own weapon and squeezed the trigger. Two Orcs that had been rushing towards him were blasted backwards by the round, dead before they hit the ground. Another Barbarian hurled a grenade that went off in the center of a charging group of Goblins. The ones in the center died instantly, the ones further out were sent careening through the air, their high pitched voices screaming at the top of their lungs. One of them bounced and slid along the ground, falling into the trench next to Wulfgar. The thing moaned and squealed pitifully, and as the Barbarian was firing away at the other wizard, he raised his foot and brought it down on where he believed the head of the creature was. There was a crunch, and he felt something far warmer than the mud start to ooze around his boot.

The distraction taken care of, he resumed firing. These wizards, he noticed, were smarter than the other one had been. In addition to their arcane shields, they had raised a stoneskin spell over themselves, and now looked like walking granite effigies. Revajik was forced to duck as a lightning bolt leapt from the fingers of one man, impacting just behind him and showering the area with superheated mud and earth.

"Concentrate your fire on the wizards!" the King of the Tribe of the Elk shouted.

In response, a barrage of SMG, rifle, and shotgun fire went towards the two spell weavers. Their shields were stronger as well, and held for a few seconds before fading. Now they had to knock out the stone skin spell before the mages could raise their defenses again. Wulfgar remembered how the spell worked, it only protected against a certain number of hits, and it didn't much matter what kind of hits those were.

The wizards were less than fifty yards from where he was, and he flicked the knob on the fire control mechanism down to fully automatic, before hosing the nearest one. In less than a second, fifteen depleted uranium slugs impacted against the wizard's defenses. His spell was gone in an instant, and he had just enough time to look on in horror before being shredded.

The other one suffered a similar fate when Revajik unleashed the power of his automatic shotgun. The king wore a grim smile as he turned his attention back to the horde, which was now confused and terrified at the loss of their leaders. They hesitated for only a second, but it was a second too long. The vicious spray of bullets hit the ones in the front and mowed them down like wheat before a farmer's scythe. The ones in the rear died soon after.

From where he stood hidden, Gromph watched the slaughter, and grumbled to himself. If you wanted something done right, you needed to do it yourself. He began to chant softly, and in a few seconds, an exactly duplicate of himself stood before him. The doppelganger wasn't quite as powerful as the Archmage himself was, but it would do, and would leave him free to deal with the woman in the sky.

Nodding to himself, both of them vanished in an instant.

As Wulfgar swapped out another magazine in his rifle, he felt a tingle run up the back of his spine, and he looked up as the mag slid into the weapon. Another wizard had entered the fray, this one by himself. Weapons were raised in an instant, but the man faded, becoming ethereal and wispy like a ghost.

"We need an AM grenade!" someone shouted.

One such device was hurled as a barrage of flaming arrows leapt from the hands of the wizard. The fiery missiles tore through the Plainsmen, and Wulfgar regretted for a moment that most of the UNSC suits of armor had been relegated to the Hunter Killer teams in the tunnels. It had been believed that the nature of the underground battle would necessitate better protection, as combat would be far closer and more intimate there than out here on the plains.

It was no use, though, mourning what he did not have. The grenade went off, and the wizard was back on the Prime in a flash. The Dark Elf reacted quickly, though, instantly casting another spell. He grew in size and stature, and glowing armor formed around his body. Another snap of the wizard's fingers brought the wrath of elemental lightning down on their heads. Wulfgar heard a scream, and turned to see that Revajik had been struck by such a bolt. The aging king lay motionless upon the mud, his body smoking with a large, open hole in his gut.

Gates to the Abyss opened up, yawning holes in reality that spewed forth fire and sulfur as a host of darkness spawned fiends rushed forward. Wulfgar had no time to morn for King or kin, and knew he was now in for the fight of his life. He dropped his rifle to the ground and dove for Revajik's ASG, before leveling it at the fiendish tide before him and unleashing the weapon's fury.

"Lady Alustriel, I need you to move so I can get a clear shot at this guy," Cortana's voice echoed in his ear. The calm was gone. This time, it was urgent. A bit of worry tugged at the edge of his mind, but Wulfgar knew that he could not spare it a second thought. The demons were almost upon him. More grenades flew up and he unleashed the fury of his assault rifle while calling for support on the command channel.

"Cortana, we're being overrun, need assistance. Revajik is dead," he said as his shotgun sawed the legs off of a Glabrezu. The creature fell with a howl, and behind it came a small host of bebiliths. Wulfgar summon his hammer, and sent Aegis Fang spinning end over end towards them, trying frantically to get a clear shot at the wizard that was in behind all of them.

The hammer impacted against their bodies, sending a number of them flying through the air like ragdolls. Rage and elation rose within the heart of the Plainsman, as he realized now that he had a shot. He leveled the shotgun, and squeezed the trigger. The gun kicked against his shoulder as it began spitting out rounds, sending burst after burst of supersonic uranium into the wizard. It ripped into his arcane defenses, ripping holes in the glowing armor that was around his body, and then into the flesh.

There was no screaming, though. Instead, the mage only kept summoning. More demons, fiends, whatever it could bring to this plane. Wulfgar was amazed at how quickly the Dark Elf was summoning these monsters. Surely, this must have been some manner of Archmage, a pinnacle of his art. He fired again, aiming for the helmet that covered the wizard's face. It was ripped to pieces in short order and another shot took the head off. To Wulfgar's amazement, the body vanished into thin air, as if it had never been there in the first place.

A simulacrum… that being had been nothing more than an arcane copy of the original. This begged the question, he thought as he turned his weapon upon the demons while summoning his hammer back to him: where was that original?

A dread chill tore at his belly as he looked up for just a brief second, and saw Lady Alustriel engaged in an arcane duel with something. Then his attention was forced back onto the battlefield. Someone was able to scrounge up a few more AM grenades, which were quickly lobbed into the area where the demons were. Many of the lesser fiends found their arcane connection to the Prime Material plane forcibly severed, and were sucked, screaming, back into the depths of the Abyss. The more powerful ones seemed to be able to resist it, crying out in agony and resisting the strange power that tried to force them from this reality.

They were distracted however, and failed to watch their defenses. A hail of gun and plasma fire ripped them apart, sending them back to join their comrades in the Abyss.

With the immediate threat eliminated, Wulfgar turned once more to face the body of his fallen king. Revajik, who had raised him when his own father had died, and who had lead the Tribe of the Elk through the times of its greatest trials, lay stretched out in the mud, the stink of his burnt flesh registering again in the Plainsman's nostrils. Other warriors seemed to be becoming aware of it as well. Their lord and commander, struck dead by Drow magic. His people had always been a people somewhat grounded in the older ways of the world. To die by magic was seen as somehow being worse than death by a blade or an arrow, there was something unnatural about it.

And as he realized it, in many ways the weapon he now held was similar. It delivered death instantly, across a range far greater than that of any bow, and with power almost unmatched, against which no defense could seemingly be mounted. A tortured smile formed on his face, and he slung the ASG over his shoulder before he reached down and grabbed his dropped assault rifle, wiping the mud off of it and reloading it. As the steam from water vaporized by plasma rounds rose from behind him, he once again took aim. As his king had been taken from him, so too would he visit death upon the enemy. As the rounds began to fly, young barbarian opened his mouth, and let out a scream to Tempos, the god of battle. Rage, grief, and a lust for vengeance mixed with the battle cry, so much that it was audible even over the roar of the UNSC and Neo Covenant weapons.

Others heard it, and their own cries mixed with his, the Plainsmen rallying to Wulfgar, determined to see their foe stretched dead upon the field of battle.

* * *

Up in the skies above the battlefield, Gromph Baenre floated as he fought a battle of wills and power against his foe. He made it a point to stay as close to her as possible, knowing that to drift would be to die. This woman had to be important, it was the only reason that one of those Spelljammers hadn't taken a shot at him yet. If he allowed himself to be separated from her, he would have to flee, or they would pounce on him in an instant. Fortunately, she seemed more concerned about protecting the troops on the ground than on trying to escape from him, and he was able to match her paces and turns exactly, staying close and harrying her chariot. He spoke a single word, harsh, grating, alien, and she gave a cry and lurched to one side.

Amazingly enough, she remained standing, though Gromph could sense arcane wards had been broken and shattered like so much glass before the power of his spell. He knew that there were some people of sufficient fortitudes or in possession of enough arcane defenses to resist a Power Word, but in his thousand year long life, he had never met one.

His foe turned abruptly, fully coming about to challenge him. Lightning crackled along one of her hands, fire blazed in the other. Both were thrown at him, the electricity arcing its way around the flames to create a single concentrated attack. His shields easily absorbed the strike, but the heat had not even begun to dissipate when his eyes were burned the glare of scores of silvery missiles streaking out from the woman's hands. They homed in on him, moving rapidly and matching every duck and weave he made. Realizing that to evade was futile, Gromph changed tactics, allowing the bolts to impact on his wards and shields, grunting softly as he felt another layer of his protection stripped away. He glared at the woman, and launched an attack upon the depths of her mind.

Like a psionic battering ram, his mental assault tore at Lady Alustriel's mind, and it felt as if someone was taking a white hot knife to her brain. She fought through the pain, though, and retaliated with an attack of her own, trying to ignore the blood that was flowing out of her nose and ears.

Gromph lurched under the assault, but he suspected that he still held the edge. The woman had to have been the one erecting the teleportation wards. That would have weakened her. In the back of his mind, he did some mental calculations of risk and possible outcome, before coming to the conclusion that his next move would be bold, and if he focused it properly, he might be able to finish her off now.

His mind summoned up the power and he forced the magic to bend and flex to his will. Before his opponent, a series of portals opened, and from within them came balls of rock and fire, meteors summoned from another plane. A half dozen of them screamed in and blasted her, ravaging her magical shields and forcing the woman back on the defensive. Summoning up all of his power, Gromph began to hurl attack after attack. Some were fire, some ice, and others simply raw, unadulterated arcane power.

His gambit worked. Her shields shattered, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. Gromph saw the dread start to form on her face, before he summoned a lance of energy and hurled it with all of his might. It impaled the woman straight through her chest, tearing through her robes and blasting her out of her chariot.

Gromph was wise though. He knew he'd struck a killing blow, but did not pause to watch the woman fall. He used one of his last remaining teleport spells, and got clear of the area. Milliseconds after he had departed, a one hundred and twenty millimeter slug from the Longsword's cannons streaked through where he had been, the sonic shockwaves shredded and smashing the golden chariot that the woman had been flying.

Clad in white, Lady Alustriel stood out for all to see as her body plummeted towards the ground.

* * *

Well, like I said, hope that wasn't too bad a chapter. Working on the next one now, but as always feedback's appreciated... though certainly not deserved in this case, as I haven't managed to actually *respond* like I should be doing.

*sighs*

At any rate, I hope the chapter was enjoyable, and thank you again to everyone who read it. Stay safe until next time, and I hope life treats you well.


	31. Chapter 30: Wrath

Hello again everyone, I know it's been a while, and I hope that you'll continue to be patient with me. I finally have a job, of sorts. Two, technically, but at the moment, they're more like internships, and they don't really pay very much (I've had to defer my student loans because I literally cannot afford to make the payments), but at least I'm getting practical experience, as my lack thereof so far had been especially painful.

That said, I do hope that this chapter is good enough to make up for the inordinate amount of time between updates these days. As always, I'm nervous as hell about all of this, and I hope you guys enjoy it. I've made some major tweaks to it, as well as to some of the previous chapters (11, 12, and 24 to be specific (note, that would be chapters 12,13, and 25 on the selector, as considers my prologue to be chapter 1)). The reason I did this was to try and make things make a bit more sense regarding a major plot element that originally just came to light here, and I felt came a bit too far out of left field.

Hope this chapter is enjoyable, and that I was able to answer everyone's responses and reviews satisfactorily (if I didn't or you didn't get the PM, just let me know and I'll correct that. I've neglected you guys way too much the past few updates as it is, and I'm truly sorry for that).

That said, here's chapter 30, at long last.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty- Wrath **

* * *

The Master Chief fired his ASG-60 into the heart of the retreating enemy forces. In these tunnels, at this range, there was no way he could miss. A Drow warrior was cut down, her death scream little more than a choking gurgle as her body was ripped apart by the shotgun.

He fired again at another one that was attempting to flee around a bend in the tunnel, taking the trooper's arm off before he could get clear of the Spartan's line of sight. Methodically, the cyborg worked his way forward and upon rounding the corner, finished what he had started.

The underground battle went well for the moment. The Underdark forces in the lower tunnels were being routed with savage fury. The Spartan had lost track of how many he had killed, but knew that the tally had to be in the hundreds at the least. Behind him roaring and banging like some elemental force of nature, were the Gutbusters. Given how they fought, the Master Chief felt that perhaps it was best for the Drow that he was up on point. He killed quickly, the Gutbusters were not much slower, but they made certain to tear into their foes for a few seconds before finishing them.

"Sierra-117 here, Sitrep for Hunter-Killer teams."

"HK-Twelve here, pressing forward along corridor seven. Enemy resistance is faltering and about to break. Causalities are minor, and the wounded can still fight."

"HK-Fifteen, in pursuit of Dark Elven High Priestess and her entourage along corridor nine. Closing fast and preparing flash-bangs."

"HK-Twenty One, holding in cavern B-Two-Seven for rearming and regrouping. Will set off again once the wounded have been tended to by the cleric."

And so it went. He had to give the Drow some credit, however, as they were attempting an organized retreat, and had so far managed to avoid the chaos of a full fledged rout. If he wanted to seal their victory completely, though, he would have to initiate that. They needed to do more than defeat the Dark Elves and their allies. They needed to crush them, break their spirits and their will to continue such a campaign. One way to do that was by eliminating high value targets of opportunity, such as what HK-Fifteen was in pursuit of. From what Drizzt had told them, Dark Elven high priestesses were the leaders and authority figures of Drow society, and they were relatively few in number, maybe one out of every thousand Dark Elves. Even better, his mind concluded with cold, calculating logic, was that to become a priestess of Lolth required that one wait until the age of forty to begin the training, while the training itself took fifty years at the very least.

It would take their enemy a century, at the absolute minimum, to replace the damage done by such a strike. Dark Elves also didn't have many children during their lives, perhaps one every half century or so, Drizzt had told them.

As he turned the corner and met a group of Dark Elves, Illithids, and slave soldiers, he was reminded of the doctrine of an old Earth general, William Sherman, and his strategy of total warfare. While it might not necessarily come to that, the Spartan did intend to do his best to make the cost of this battle so grievous, so catastrophic, that it would be the better part of a thousand years before the Drow would even _think_of daring to mount such a campaign again.

He knew that the glowing hot end of the ASG's barrel would alert the enemy to him, and as he raised the weapon, a number of his foes did cry out. Crossbow bolts zipped through the air towards him, but the cyborg dodged them easily, and the two that did connect rebounded harmlessly off his Mjolnir armor. He unleashed the fury of the automatic weapon in the next instant, raking the opposing ranks with supersonic Uranium. From behind him, surging forward and screaming like men who were possessed, came Pwent and his crew, while Bidderdo hastily fumbled for an attack spell, firing off a lightning bolt a moment later.

The Spartan's polarized visor compensated for the sudden noonday brightness that filled the small cavern, and the Gutbusters had the good sense to shield their eyes when they heard the mage chanting. The Drow, though, were not so fortunate. They and their slaves were blinded by the flash, an effect arguably more devastating than the three Dark Elves that were cut down by the strike.

As Pwent and his fellow Dwarves surged forward, the Master Chief slung his shotgun up over his back, and drew his plasma repeater. This would enable him to avoid friendly fire more easily. He crouched, and began to move forward, targeting what appeared to be some sort of Drow officer attempting to rally his men. A double tap removed the man from the equation, leaving his companions showered in bits of steam and cooked flesh.

Then the Spartan saw something flash on his motion sensor, behind him. It was red, not keyed to his FoF system, and he twisted to confront it. As he did so, he saw that his opponent was an Illithid. It screamed, spreading its tentacles wide and revealing the beak like mouth that was hidden behind them. There was a pulsing 'thwoop' noise, and he felt something pass over him. The world tried to spin for a moment, and his inner ears seemed disturbed by the attack. John felt for a moment as if someone had tried to spin him like a top.

He fought his way through the dizziness, and retaliated with a three shot burst that blew open the Illithid's chest and took its head off.

"Sierra-117, this is Oracle One," Commander Keyes' voice echoed over his commlink.

"Sierra here, I read you, ma'am."

"Dwarven clerics have divined a location of what they think is the sub-commander in charge of the underground assault forces. Cortana's patching the coordinates through to you now, and we'll be redirecting additional forces to back you up. HK-Two and HK-Six."

HK-Two was Bruenor and Orna. HK-Six was Johnson's group. Just like old times. A waypoint marker appeared on his HUD, down below him and approximately fifteen hundred meters in front of him. He almost smiled behind his helmet. Here was a chance to strike a decisive blow beyond just slaughtering everything they came across. He was concerned that Bruenor was going to come into the firing line, but he knew that the Dwarves would rally around their king and fight all the fiercer for his presence.

"Everyone else get that?" he asked as he cut down a pair of Orcs.

"Loud and clear," Pwent replied as he buried his axe into a Drow Female's gut, while at the same time jumping up and smashing a spiked gauntlet into her head for good measure. Through the infrared vision mode, John watched as hot blood and bits of brain matter coated the Dwarf's gauntlet, prompting Pwent to let out a massive battle roar that would have sent most sane opponents running from him as fast as they could.

A number of the Underdark forces, mostly slaves, seemed to suddenly think that was quite the prudent idea and tried to disengage. One of the Gutbusters hurled a grenade down the tunnel to try to stop them, where it bounced and rolled into the midst of the fleeing troops. The roar of the detonation shook the Master Chief's bones, and scores were killed by the shrapnel and concussion wave. Things were getting so bad for the Dark Elves by this point that they had resorted to the use of vocal communication en-mass, as opposed to their silent code hand signals.

"We must fall back!" one screamed as the Spartan busied himself with eliminating anything he could find.

"Regroup in the lower sections of the tunnels!" Another shouted, a phrase that was to be her last. Moments after she spoke, one of Bidderdo's spells caught her dead on. The arcane projectiles ripped into her body and stretched her corpse out along the tunnel.

Pwent launched himself at a large group of the dark skinned elves, roaring at the top of his lungs and lowering the spike on his head. Several of the dark elves recoiled, though whether it was from Pwent's charge, his animalistic roar, or the stench of his body, the Spartan knew not. It might have even been all three. Regardless of its origins, one female was too slow in clearing the path, and was impaled upon the massive spike. Pwent laughed like a madman and ripped the spike upwards and out of her body, before turning to face the Drow's compatriots. A curving scimitar descended upon the Dwarven berserker, but its curved edge, ill-suited for armor penetration, merely bounced off the enchanted suit.

Pwent retaliated with a spiked gauntlet, smashing the Elf at about eye level. The Master Chief almost winced as he realized both where the Gutbuster had struck his foe, and that his opponent happened to be a male. The Dark Elven warrior screamed in agony as blood went everywhere. Fortunately for him, Pwent's other fist smashed into his head moments later.

More of the Gutbusters piled into the fray, screaming like feral beasts or shouting cries of vengeance in remembrance of those who had fallen when the Hall had first been overrun. The Spartan felt at home on the chaos of the battlefield, watching everything with a careful eye. Spartan Time had long since closed in around him, and whenever an opportunity presented itself, he blasted away with his plasma repeater.

At the same time, he had to make certain that his allies didn't get too far ahead of him and run into an ambush that a rear guard might be setting up. That, more than anything, was the most difficult part of the tunnel fight. The Gutbusters were fiends for revenge, apparently even by Dwarven standards, and would throw themselves into a fray with an almost suicidal disregard for their own safety.

He watched that in action moments later as he saw a Drow soldier turn at a charging dwarf, whip out a handheld crossbow, and fire. In slow motion, the Spartan watched as the bolt smashed into the Dwarf's face, but the little soldier didn't slow. The Gutbuster raised his axe above his head and leapt forward. The surprised Dark Elf tried to ready his swords, but wasn't fast enough. John had a perfect glimpse at a look of absolute terror manifest itself of the face of the dark skinned Elf before the axe cleaved his skull in two.

As the corpse fell to the ground, he heard the Dwarf shout in glee.

"Twenty four!" He pumped his fist into the air, looking over his shoulder at his comrades, prominently displaying the crossbow bolt that was poking out of his face, just to the right side of his nose.

"Ye'er slipping," another one shouted. "I'm on forty seven!"

The wounded Dwarf snorted, and rushed to find another foe. The Spartan understood their glee to a point, though. Dwarven justice in regards to killing tended to treat each death of the enemy as akin to avenging a fallen brother. The Dwarves were using this opportunity to payback thousands of years worth of atrocities that the Drow had committed.

"They are positively mad!" Bidderdo exclaimed as he cast a magic missile spell into the ranks of a few Orcs too stupid to try to run.

The Master Chief said nothing, merely raised his repeater as he heard the telltale crack of someone teleporting, shoving air out of the way. He twisted around and saw that two Illithids had appeared there. They again tried that strange stunning attack, and the Spartan dove to the side to avoid it, rolling up into a ball. He popped up on his knee a split second later, and sent a barrage at the two. Arcane shielding flared to life, and held for a millisecond or two before the plasma rounds overcame them.

Most of this tunnel was clear, and it was time for them to begin moving forward again. The Spartan narrowed his eyes behind his helmet, and moved up to his point man position. The area before them opened up into a large cave nearly three football fields in size, and was full off columns and large stalactites. It was the perfect place for an ambush.

He swapped his repeater with his shotgun once again and moved forward at a crouch, ready for anything.

* * *

"I fear nothing, for I am fear made flesh!" Orna Fulsamee screamed, firing both of his plasma rifles into the ranks of the Underdark troops.

The blue-hot bolts tore through them and they fled before the might of the Light of Sangheilios. Orna gave no quarter and advanced through the cavern, noting that the slaves were no longer even trying to fight him. He paused just long enough to slap a fresh power cell into the rifle in his left hand, while at the same time tapping his lower mandibles together. The fools were simply running. You never did that. All it did was give your opponent a free shot at your back.

Off to his left Bruenor Battlehammer charged forward, the mighty axe Ragnarok gripped tightly in his hand and his clan shield in the other. A pair of Dark Elven soldiers—females—Orna noted, turned and tried to face the king. They were looking for something to salvage in this disaster. However, while Orna saw that the king's bodyguard was right behind him, they would ultimately be unnecessary.

The two females set upon the king; their blades whirling around together almost like a meat grinder. The Dwarven King parried two of the four with his magical axe, while using his shield to deflect the other two. Then he dropped to one knee and slammed his shield down onto the right foot of one of his foes. The girl howled in agony as the sharp point of the heater shield punched through her leather boot. Orna saw hot blood gush up out of the wound and the Dark Elf fell backwards. The Dwarven King fell to the ground, casually rolling underneath a strike that would have taken his head off. He swung again as he uncurled, Ragnarok slamming into the woman's guts, hacking through her mail armor and swiftly disemboweling her.

The Dwarven King leapt back up onto his feet, and swiftly finished the job by decapitating both of the Dark Elves.

"I'll teach you dogs to desecrate my home!" he shouted and raised the gore-covered axe high, before tucking his shield in and moving deeper into the cavern.

Orna looked at the waypoint marker and line map on his HUD. They were headed the right way and had less than a kilometer to advance before they came across the Matron.

"Cortana, what is the status on HK-Six and HK-One?" the Sangheili asked.

"At the moment, they're advancing at pace with you. Expect convergence on objective in four."

"Objective is stationary?" He saw a Gray Dwarf attempting to flee into a tunnel that branched off the left side of the cavern, and his hand blurred as he raised his rifle and fired. The round tore a hole larger than his fist all the way through the Dwarf, killing it instantly.

"Eyes on target and it's not moving," the computer replied. "Be wary, this might be a trap. I'm not sure how good the Drow are at acting out 'panic.'"

"Will keep that under advisement. Status on the surface battles?" He asked as he advanced up to the King's side. He felt much more at ease when he was next to Bruenor, lest something ill befall the King on his watch.

"It's a meat grinder up there. The Drow forces have been pretty much wiped out, slaves and all. A few managed to get to the far side of the mountain, but they're being dealt with." There was a pause. "It hasn't all been going in our favor, though, one of their wizards was smarter than the rest, and managed to skitter around and take out Revajik and Alustriel."

Orna winced. He had known the two for only a little while, but he knew that they were well respected leaders and powerful allies. In the unity that would come after this battle, they would be missed. All wars had casualties, though, and both of them knew the risks of fighting on the frontlines alongside their people. Even knowing those risks, they had acted for the greater good.

The Ascetic growled, noticing another Dark Elf out of the corner of his eye, one that was trying to slip away into another tunnel. A split second later it fell, shorter by a head after the plasma round hit him.

The defenders here would not have died in vain, this bloodshed would not be for nothing. On his honor, Orna swore that to himself.

"Keep pressing forward!" he shouted to his fellows. The Dwarven members of his group needed no encouragement, eager to follow the massive alien and their King further into battle.

In the next cavern, the Drow and their slaves were attempting to reorganize and mount a rear holding action of sorts, with a cleric of Lolth shouting at the top of her lungs at her subordinates. Orna wasn't certain if the translation software in his helmet was working properly, as it had something to do with siccing something called a yochol upon his forces. He growled, trying to think of what that might be. He knew that Cortana had briefed them on what type of demons they could expect to be thrown at them, and he doubted a construct as careful and meticulous as her would miss something of this nature.

The Ascetic growled, and fired a number of bursts into the Drow lines. He cut a swath through them, driving the dark skinned elves back deeper into the cavern. He could hear the cleric beginning to chant, but she had most wisely ducked down amidst the ranks of the slave soldiers and her own forces, using them as living shields. Snarling at the cowardly move, Orna flicked both of his rifles to full auto, and began to hose the ranks as the Drow tried desperately to dress them and form some kind of defense. A number of crossbow bolts zipped in towards the Elite, but his shields crackled to life, filling the air with blue and yellow arcs of energy as they bounced harmlessly off his forcefields. There was a shout and a trio of bolts impacted in front of the Elite. A moment later he saw arcane runes flaring to life and the bolts detonated with tremendous fury. Orna's shields held but he was blown off his feet by the concussive wave. Careless, he thought to himself as he rolled back up onto his feet, noting that his shields had been drained by a quarter.

Curses were shouted as Orna tried to find the Cleric, suddenly aware of the Dwarven lines rushing up with him and smashing into the Underdark ranks. Already confused and with their moral hanging by a thread, the assault of the half-crazed Dwarven soldiers broke the backs of their enemies. Orna was reminded of the oceans of his homeworld, watching them break against cliffs and then trying to flow back into the deeper waters.

It was, however, too late. The Cleric's chanting reached a crescendo, and a hellish light filled the cavern.

"Fall back!" Orna shouted, looking for Bruenor in the confusion.

"Pull back and reform!" Bruenor shouted, raising his bloodied war axe up above the ranks of the others, calling his soldiers too him.

They obeyed as the light grew in intensity and a number of shapes filtered through the cavern. The Underdark forces fell back as well, deeper down the cavern. Orna understood, nodding his head as the Dwarves that were carrying shields formed up in front of their king, interlocking the metal and wood to create a massive, seemingly impenetrable wall. The Drow were not trying to regroup here, apparently, at least not anymore. They were going to do it further down, perhaps where the Matron was. Whatever had just been summoned, were merely here to buy time for that regrouping.

Orna clacked his mandibles together, his eyes narrowing as the fleeing ranks parted around the demons. He still couldn't see them very well and held his fire. He was unsure how much plasma fire he would have to dump into these fiends to kill them and it would not do to be out of ammo at a bad time. True, he had his blades and the rucksack at his waist, but the fractions of a second could mean the difference between life and death for him or one of his allies.

The last of the slaves raced past the summoned creatures and at last, Orna got a good look at them. They were bizarre to say the least, but as he stared at them, he remembered what they were. Handmaidens of Lolth, the messengers and enforcers of the foul goddess. The Elite let a feral growl permeate the air as he stared at them. They were just a little shorter than he was, and reddish black in color. Most evident, though, was the physical form of the creatures. They resembled dripping blobs of candle wax with a single malevolently glowing eye. A vast, tooth-filled mouth opened in the middle of their bodies, and they let out an unearthly wail as a number of tentacle appendages erupted from their bodies and streaked towards the Dwarven lines.

From behind them as well, a number of Bebilliths shifted into reality. Orna leveled his rifles at the two blobs and let fly. The blessed bolts of his plasma guns ripped into the Yochols as they shifted forward, smashing two Dwarves out of the shield wall with their tendrils. Both of the Handmaidens howled in agony, and shifted over to where they were looking at Orna. One of them broke away from the other, slithering over towards the Elite.

Orna dodged to and fro, evading the tendrils as they reached out to try and grasp at him. One of the Bebilliths gave a screech, and jumped towards him as well. He back-flipped out of the way of the massive arachnid, landing on his feet and hammering it with plasma fire. Fist sized chunks of its armored exoskeleton were vaporized, and the beast howled as leapt at him again. To the surprise of both the spider-like demon and its unholy commander, the Ascetic did not evade or flee this time, but set his legs against the ground and shoulder-checked the beast. The massive, powerful muscles of the Sangheili warrior were more than a match for the Bebillith, knocking the demon out of the air and sending it tumbling helplessly in a hissing, spitting ball of legs and fangs.

The Yochol screamed, and tried to get out of the way, but was not fast enough. The two-ton arachnid smashed into the Handmaiden, splattering it all over the walls. While the Bebillith finally came to a halt, and tried to get up to its feet, Orna watched the small waxy blobs of the Handmaiden slowly start to move back together.

He looked over to the Dwarves, and noted that Bruenor's troops were hurling themselves at the other three Bebiilliths that had been summoned up. They were doing well against the demonic spiders, but less so against the Yochol. Every time that an axe would hack a tendril off, the fiend would simply grow a new one, while the severed limb slithered back to the main body. Kinetic based weaponry would be of limited use against such a foe. The Handmaiden had no such problems, and even as he watched the myriad of limbs from its body grabbed a pair of Dwarven warriors and ripped them apart.

"Holy water!" Bruenor shouted at the top of his lungs as the Dwarves pulled back from melee combat.

One of the Dwarves hurled a flask in the direction of the Handmaiden. It shattered on the rocky ground just a few feet in front of her. The sacred water went everywhere, and the demon howled as it splattered upon her, burning her skin and filling the cavern with steam.

Orna shifted his aim, firing one of his rifles at the reforming Yochol and his other at its companion. Both of them shrieked and Orna winced. The sound was similar to claws upon a chalkboard and made his skull rattle. Still, he did not relent. He noted his dwindling charges and made preparations to reload his weapons when the chance arose.

At the same time, he did some mental calculations, factoring in the effectiveness of his weapons and the distance that the Dwarves were at in relation to both the Yochols and himself. As the charge in his offhand rifle was exhausted, he hooked the weapon onto his hip, before reaching up and grabbing a plasma grenade off his bandolier. He depressed the arming switch and a soft blue light filled the cavern.

"Stand clear!" he shouted, his message relayed over the external speakers of his suit.

King Bruenor and the others complied with his orders, and moved back into their lined formation as the grenade sailed through the air. The Ascetic's aim was true, and he was able to get the grenade to land precisely as he needed it to. It attached itself to the waxy skin of the Handmaiden and sat there for a second, pulsing softly. The demon didn't seem to understand what the device was, and it turned its baleful eye towards the strange warrior that the Dwarves had with them, which was fiddling with the strange wands that it carried.

It opened its mouth to scream, and got that far before the grenade detonated. The battle-cry never materialized as the white and blue flames swept over the creature, vaporizing it and destroying the material shell its soul occupied. As the flash faded, Orna, his weapons now reloaded, gazed at the spot where the Handmaiden had once been. His mandible twitched in satisfaction as he saw that there was nothing but a white-hot smear of super heated rock where the Yochol had stood.

There was a jab of pain inside of his mind, and he growled as he turned his guns upon the other fiend once more. It seemed upset at the death of its companion and was trying to strike out at his mind, since it could not harm his body. The Elite responded with his own battle cry, unloading both of his plasma rifles into her as another of the Bebbiliths tried come at him. He jumped over the demonic arachnid's attack and came down on top of the thing. Both of the demons screamed as the Yochol found itself being vaporized by the sheer volume of plasma fire that was being poured into her, while the Bebbilith had its head smashed open by the Sangheili's boot.

In its desire to destroy what it perceived as the greatest threat, the Yochol had forgotten about the Dwarves. It was sharply reminded a few seconds later as three more flasks of holy water shattered on it. With its waxy skin damaged by the previous assaults and the plasma fire raking it, it had no defense against this latest barrage. Howling in denial the Handmaiden seemed to dilute down into nothing. Its scream ended abruptly as it collapsed and disintegrated. The Dwarves let out a hearty cheer and began to press forward again.

They had an appointment with that Matron, after all, and it wouldn't be proper or honorable to keep nobility waiting.

* * *

The Master Chief nodded his head as he began to move forward. He switched out his repeater, putting it down into the bag of holding that he had on his waist. He let his thoughts wander to the weapon that he wanted and it jumped up into his hand. Smiling behind his helmet in satisfaction, the Spartan pulled out his flamethrower. Gripping it in his hands, he peered down the tunnel. He could see the first few Drow and Slave soldiers, and zooming in, what appeared to be the Matron. A number of demons surrounded her, including what appeared to be a couple of Balors. He remembered how ineffective his plasma weapons had been against the demons and made doubly certain that his ASG was secure. They'd need to hit hard and fast, the cavern that the Matron had chosen for her command center was a large one, nearly double the size of a football stadium. They would need to inflict proper disorientation and terror if they wanted to stop themselves from getting swarmed.

"Mark plus ten to initiation," he whispered over the radio. "Magi stand by to block long range teleportation vectors."

"We roger," came the various whispers back.

The Master Chief reached down and pulled out one of his flash bangs. He slowly crept closer. Five more seconds. Four. Three. Two. One.

He armed the grenade and lobbed it out into the ranks of the Drow. Those who learned faster than others realized what the telltale clanking noise meant, and tried to shield their eyes or their ears. Others were not fast enough, and were rendered helpless before the burst of light and noise. At the same time, his scanners indicated that the blocking spells had been put into action. They would only hold for a few minutes, but that would hopefully be long enough.

Protected by his polarizing visor, the Spartan leveled his flamethrower, and unleashed hell. White-hot streams of deity blessed flame roared through the tunnel, devouring everything that it touched. Flesh and hair turned to ash and water vapor before its fury, adamantine turned white-hot while lesser metals boiled away or melted into puddles along the floor and terrifying, agonizing screams were cut short either by the flames' embrace, or by the lack of oxygen that suddenly began to fill the chamber.

The Spartan moved the flamethrower back and forth like it was a hose, and anything that was within eighty meters of him died. Lesser demons burned and howled as the holy fire touched them, while Wizards and Clerics tried to cast spells for the few moments that their arcane defenses held against the onslaught.

The Spartan looked at the HUD marker on the Matron and noticed that she was attempting to retreat, taking a bodyguard and the Balors with her. The Spartan was curious as to why, as the demons seemed to be more resistant to the fire. Did she fear for her life, or was it something more than that? Was it a trap, designed to lure them in and force them to fight on terms more favorable to the Underdark Forces?

The Spartan frowned, and decided that he had no intentions of finding out. He lowered the flamethrower for a moment, and his hand dove into his rucksack. He summoned up an Antioch grenade, one of two that he had left, and threw the device as hard as he could.

One of the bodyguards must have seen the device coming, as she leaped in front of her charge and took the hit for the Matron. Moments later, as the spiked legs from the grenade tore into the face of the female Dark Elf, her body disintegrated down to the skeleton. Then a blast of power filled the cavern, shaking it to the very roots of the cave system. Rocks fell from down on high, smashing a few of the survivors, but the Spartan looked at the marker, and noticed that the target was still alive. He was impressed. The Matrons were certainly not slackers in the defense department.

He contemplated using his remaining grenade, or ordering Johnson or one of the others to do the same, but decided against it. There were more valuable targets that they were going to have to hunt down later. Best to save those for them.

Amidst the gunfire from the other troops that were pouring into the caverns, Sergeant Johnson's voice boomed, loud and spoken in excellent Dark Elven, challenging the Drow to come to their deaths.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall know no fear, for _I am the baddest mother-fucker in the valley!_" Even as he spoke, the ODST's flamethrower went into action, filling his area of the cavern with hellish fire. His foes died in agony as four thousand degree flames washed over them.

The Sergeant Major did not relent, and the flames ripped through a group of Minotaurs, Orcs, and Grey Dwarves. They were burned away to ash in seconds, and the Sergeant advanced, members of his Hunter Killer team at his back, far enough away that the thermite-based napalm wouldn't harm them. Those armed with guns unleashed them, filling the cavern with hypersonic uranium.

"Focus fire on the Matron's group, I want those Balors dead!" The Master Chief called out to the other HK teams.

"We confirm. Grenade volley!" Orna's group cried out. Moments later, a half dozen frag grenades were launched into the air. They landed in amongst the Matron's group, and detonated a second later. The Master Chief nodded in satisfaction as most of the melee troops that had managed to somehow survive the Antioch grenade were killed instantly by the blast and ensuing storm of metal fragments. Both of the Balors growled, and fiery blood oozed out of their wounds. The demonic commanders turned and glared at the intruding groups, and the Spartan knew what was coming next.

"Stay alert, they're about to teleport!" he shouted.

Sure enough, moments later, they vanished. He kept his eye on his motion tracker, and his earns alert, filtering out the noise of the battle, waiting for that telltale pop that would alert him.

The noise came, air rushing away, and he dove as a red blob appeared three meters away to his right. His EM scanners spiked as a bolt of lightning lashed out over his head. This was followed by the unearthly clang of a heavy piece of metal connecting with the granite of the cavern walls. The Spartan twisted around and flipped back up onto his feet, swapping out his flamethrower for his automatic shotgun. His demonic adversary was busy trying to pull its claymore-sized sword out of the stone. The Master Chief blurred into action, remembering the lessons he had learned when he had battled the other Balor some hours earlier. He leveled the weapon with the creature's left leg, right where the kneecap was.

A squeeze of the trigger sent a half dozen shells worth of pellets and heavy flechettes screaming at the target. An arcane shield leapt up, though, stopping them inches from the Balor. So, it seemed as though this one had the sense not to rely simply on its hide and offensive magic for protection. The Spartan strafed to one side, tucking himself down into a roll as the powerful demon tried to take another swing at him. It seemed to be faster than the last one that he had encountered and more aggressive. His scanners warned him once again that the Demon was going to try casting a spell and the Spartan reacted by weaving his way behind a stone column. A fireball crackled past him an instant later, exploding some distance away, but still close enough that his temperature gauge spiked upwards two hundred degrees.

"Pwent, you and the rest of the team move forward and assist the others. I'll keep this thing off your back. Bidderdo!" he called out.

The mage knew exactly what the Spartan wanted and quietly whispered a spell while the armored super soldier leaned out and squeezed off two more bursts at the Balor to keep it distracted.

"Ascetic, HK-Two, I am engaging an enemy Balor," Orna shouted over the commlink. The Master Chief stole a glance out of the corner of his eye and saw that the Elite was tangling with the other Demon, pumping fire into it from a carbine while blocking and parrying its strikes with a plasma sword. The other members of his group, and Johnson's as well, provided fire support to keep other hostiles off his back while the Sangheili went to work. The covering fire was proving nightmarishly effective, it seemed, judging by the bodies that were piling up on the cavern floor.

"Come on, we can take this guy!" Pwent shouted as Biddero reached the final stages of his spell casting.

"Our target is the Matron, the Balors are distractions now," the Master Chief responded. "Flank around and engage her mundane body guard, cut her escape route off!"

There was a grunt, but the Gutbusters reluctantly complied with the Spartan's orders. At the same time, Bidderdo finished his spell, and the haste effects took hold of the cyborg. The actions of those around him slowed to that of a surreal dream, and he leveled his weapon at the Balor, unleashing its destructive power upon the evil creature. It turned away from the Dwarves, crouching suddenly and then leaping at the Spartan, its blade cocked back as it snarled.

The Spartan's mind began to calculate the exact timing needed to evade. Too soon, the Balor would compensate, and too late, he wouldn't be able to get out of the way. He wanted his shields to be at full strength for when the thing started chucking around those firestorm powers it had. Closer and closer, it came as he continued to fire at it. Giving the illusion of someone who was trying for a last stand. Its eyes narrowed and a blast of pain knifed through the Master Chief's body and mind. John growled, but remained focused. He let two more shots leave the barrel, bringing his ammo down to twenty-seven shots, and then he jumped up into the air, flipping over the massive demon as it passed under him, firing down at it. Still its arcane shields held, and the Spartan growled in frustration as he saw his EM scanners pick up again.

He cocked an eyebrow, and then realized what was going on. Somehow, it was recasting its defensive spells as soon as they failed. Clever. He nodded his head and tried to figure out where such an artifact would be; he couldn't see one upon the Balor's person. There was something going on here, and he grew ever more suspicious that this was not an ordinary Balor that he was facing.

He glanced over at Orna, who seemed to be holding his own for the moment, and then focused back on the demon before him. It cast another spell, and it too began to speed up. They were back on even footing. Its glowing eyes narrowed, but the Spartan stood steadfast, unintimidated by the beast. He reached down and withdrew a Brute spiker grenade from his rucksack, holding it like one would a club, giving the Balor the mistaken belief that he had drawn a melee weapon. It laughed at him in a voice that promised the pain of a thousand deaths, and then extended its arm and hurled three lightning bolts in rapid succession at him. The Spartan twisted managed to doge two of them. He grimaced as his shields were drained by about forty percent, before hurling the grenade. The Balor reached out and caught the weapon in midair.

"Foolish mortal, you think that you can conquer me?" It snarled. "I am—"

Whatever it was about to say was cut off when the grenade detonated. Dense, razor-sharp spikes flew everywhere, glowing white-hot as they ripped through the Balor's arcane defenses and into its flesh. It creature screamed in agony, rearing up to its full height and spreading its wings wide. What caught the Master Chief's attention however, was that over the explosion he had heard a distinctive 'clang' when the spikes had torn their way through the Demon. His eyes narrowed behind the visor, and he realized that the Demon had to wearing armor, transparent and invisible over its flesh. He stared closely at the wounds on its chest, and confirmed this theory when he noted hot blood spatters whose spread patterns matched liquid behind confined between two solid objects.

Oh, this one was _very_ clever.

That also meant that there was a high probability that whatever artifact it was using to protect itself was hidden as well. Even if he couldn't see it, though, the Master Chief knew now that his foe was not invincible. There was a threshold that the shields could take, and when they were down, even if it was just for a moment, the creature was vulnerable. Further, he had studied enough of those tomes that Helm had given them to know that such a shielding artifact would have a limited number of charges. There was only so much abuse it could shield its wearer from. In this, he had the advantage. He could outlast the Balor if it came down to a war of attrition.

The comm. chatter that had been raging over their network indicated that the Matron was attempting to pull back towards the rear of the cavern, using her slaves as a sacrificial meat shield to stop all the bullets and grenades from reaching her. No doubt the woman was unnerved by how badly the battle had been going. Never in their worst nightmares had it likely crossed the mind of the Drow that they would fail in their attempt to take Mithril Hall back, not with an army as large as the one that they had mustered. To not only be driven off, but have the enemy taking the fight back towards them had probably not been planned for.

Even if she was panicking, though, she was by no means harmless. As he fired another seven rounds into the Balor, he remembered CPO Mendez's training. When it is cornered and fighting for its life, nothing was harmless, no matter how weak or pathetic it seemed.

The Balor summoned up one of its firestorms, and white-hot destructive heat filled the area of the cavern that they were fighting in. Fire hot as Covenant plasma fire surrounded the Spartan and John bolted out of the blast range before his shields could take too much damage. He drew a flash-bang and twisted towards the creature as it cast another spell. As he hurled the device towards the Balor the Demon let off a missile storm spell and dozens of glowing projectiles smashed into the Master Chief slashing into his shields and causing the meter to drop sharply. The impact picked him up and blasted him through the air. He slammed into a stone column, cracking it heavily and thudding to the ground as the flash-bang went off. The Balor clamped its left hand over its eyes and howled in raw fury as the Spartan rolled to his feet and emptied the mag from his ASG-60 into it. The shields that the Balor protected itself with were weakening, the Spartan noticed, as three of his shots got through, again giving off distinctive sounds associated with penetrating metal.

While blinded, though, the monster was far from helpless, and it retaliated with a furious barrage of elemental spells that forced the cyborg to duck and weave as bolts of lightning ripped past him. The spells ripped apart thick stone stalactites and sent the temperatures in the area into a region that would have instantly immolated anyone not magically shielded or encased in a suit of power armor.

The Master Chief used the sensors onboard his suit to attempt a material scan of the Balor while he was reloading his weapon's spent magazine. He wasn't certain how thorough it was, but he was able to pick up elements of the admantine metal covering most of the Balor's torso, head, legs, and lower arms. The upper arms appeared to be bare though.

He primed his weapon, loading a flechette round into the firing chamber, and opened fire again. The Balor seemed to still be blinded and disoriented by the flash bang, and continued to fire off spell after spell in a blind attempt to crush the cyborg that was opposing it. Storms of razor sharp ice tore through the cavern, ripping through stone and bouncing off the Spartan's recharging shields as he ducked between stone columns and returned fire, focusing on the upper arms of the Balor.

"You miserable little nothing!" it screamed, teleporting in the general direction of the Spartan. The Spartan tapped into his super human running speeds, and combined with the Haste spell that had been cast on him, covered one hundred meters in the blink of an eye. A pair of Orc slaves were in front of him, no doubt thinking that this area of the cavern might be more safe then the open center, where Johnson's flamethrower was killing anything that exposed itself for more than a split second, while the half crazy Gutbusters mopped up whatever he missed.

They barely had time to register his presence before he used the butt of his shotgun to cave in their skulls.

"I will tear you from your armor, rip out your guts and feast upon them, devour you alive, tear out your eyes and rend your limbs!" the Balor snarled. "I am Wendonai the Corruptor, and I will not be denied by some pathetic mortal!"

This one did love to run its mouth. The Spartan did not return the challenge. He had no time to waste with boasting, nor any pride that demanded that he promise to do any one of a half dozen equally horrendous things to the Balor in return. He looked at the creature, and tried to see if there was some way he could determine how strong its shields were.

"She's trying to pull back," He heard Johnson bark over the comm. channel. "Grenade volley on three. Let's show miss high maintenance how we do things where I come from!"

The Spartan spared a glance, and saw a number of grenades land around the fleeing Matron. Most of her remaining secondary bodyguard was mulched by the ensuing destruction, but the Matron's arcane defenses once again held against the onslaught, and she continued to summon up Glabrezu's and the like to aid her escape. He saw Pwent and the other Gutbusters of his Hunter Killer team working their way through the ranks of the Drow towards the woman, but there were too many soldiers, too many _bodies_in the way. She was going to escape at this rate.

The Spartan saw a chance to kill two birds with one stone. Lure the Balor into the ranks of friendlies, and cut it down there. The Underdark forces would suffer hellish casualties when the thing's corpse exploded, and watching this apparently abnormally powerful Balor cut down in front of their eyes would do wonders to their already breaking morale.

At the same time, it would force the Matron to deal with him before she could escape. The Spartan merely had to get her attention, and he did know a very, very good way to do that. He fired two rounds at the Balor, getting Wendonai's attention and causing the still blinded demon to hurl magic at him. He dove out of the way as a lightning bolt rocketed past, rolling back up to his feet as a moment later the ground where he'd been standing seemed to liquefy and collapse inwards on itself. The Spartan backpedaled as he got back up, slapping his shotgun onto his back and reaching down into his rucksack. His thoughts drifted to the weapon he wanted. A moment later, he pulled out a jackhammer rocket launcher.

The smart link integrated with his suit, and the Spartan took aim, focusing on the Matron. He couldn't get a clear shot, with all the Demons and Dark Elves around her, but he didn't need to. He depressed the firing stud.

Matron Hesken, trying to put as many bodies and as much distance between these murderous surface dwellers and herself as possible, heard something scream like a Banshee, and cried out as her sensitive ears were assaulted. She turned towards the source of the noise, and had enough time to spot a mote of white heat before the one hundred and two millimeter missile impacted just a few feet away from her.

She felt a strange sense of floating, disorientation and the world flying around her in a myriad of colors and blurred shapes. This was followed by a very painful return to reality as she slammed against a stone column. The Matron bit her lip so hard that it bled as pain wracked her body, and she realized that her defenses had been breached. They were gone, and she was for the moment, helpless. If the way her chest was screaming at the moment was any indication, she'd also fractured several ribs. The Matron, though, had not survived in Drow society for five hundred years by panicking the moment she was exposed and vulnerable. She hastily erected a powerful stone skin spell from a ring on her left hand, before healing herself. She grunted as she felt her battered body knit itself back together and looked around, trying to find her Glabrezu escort and the rest of her bodyguard. It took her a moment to realize that they were all around her… pieces of them at any rate.

The Spartan nodded as he saw the Matron rise. Then he shifted his attention back towards the Balor, and he suspected its sight must have been returning, as it was starting to move towards him. He waited, Spartan Time in full effect as he ran through the calculations in his head, factoring in the Balor's movement speed, the acceleration of the Jackhammer's missile, time for the two to meet, and the Balor's apparent reaction times.

Once it closed to within thirty meters the Spartan depressed the firing stud once again. The rocket leapt out of its tube, shrieking, hungry for prey. The Balor snarled, and raised a hand to try and defend itself. The Master Chief nodded his head as he shoved the empty rocket launcher back into his rucksack. Just as planned, the rocket impacted against the Balor and detonated. The shockwave washed over the cyborg, and when the flash had cleared, Wendonai stood screaming in agony. The Demon's left arm was completely gone, vaporized by the Jackhammer.

"You…" it growled, holding its remaining arm against the stump, fiery blood oozing past the fist and the hilt of the sword it carried. The Master Chief knew that he had properly enraged the beast, now for the masterstroke: luring it in.

He unslung his ASG-60, and rushed down towards the disoriented Matron. He could see the stone skin spell that covered her and watched as she shouted for the remaining forces to come to her aid. She was no doubt going to try to summon otherworldly reinforcements. It was time to put a stop to that.

The Master Chief could hear his target's voice building, and knew that she was reaching the end of her spell. He had to silence her. Now. He rushed in, lowering his shoulder as the Matron's voice rose in timbre. Moments later, Matron Hesken was given a crash course in two very important lessons. The first was that Spartan-II super soldiers could run at speeds normally associated with dragons in mid flight. The second one was an objective introduction to Newton's First Law of Motion. That is, an object in motion tends to stay in motion, an object at rest will stay at rest unless acted upon by an outside force. More importantly, she learned what happened when her forty kilogram body came into contact with an object over a dozen times more massive that was traveling at high speed.

Matron Hesken let out a cry as she was hurled more than twenty meters through the air, slamming into another stone column with enough force to send cracks spider webbing through the rock. Small chunks fell from the ceiling, bouncing off her arcane protection as she tried to rise to her feet and get a good look at what had just hit her. The Mjolnir Mark VI's thermal cloaking systems kept her from seeing more than a faint outline of the terror that walked amongst her forces.

The Matron was wise, though, and even with only that silhouette to go with, she realized what it was. This was the terror that had slaughtered so many of her troops, the golem-like warrior that could butcher her people at will. This was the thing that Brianna had shown to her and the other Matrons all those months ago… and what had probably killed her. She felt her heart start to beat faster and faster, and terror rise up in her stomach. She quashed it, though, as best she could and began to renew her spell casting as her remaining forces swarmed around the thing. Behind them and the fiend that sought her life she could see Wendonai. The mighty Balor was wounded but not finished. He would come to her aide, she knew. No mortal being or construct could possibly stand against the might of the Demon and so many of his underlings.

The silhouette blurred in as she started to chant. She watched as her remaining soldiers rushed towards them. One of her elite troops leapt at the nearly invisible soldier. There was a bang, a spray of heat, followed by hot blood spraying everywhere. The corpse of the bodyguard fell to the ground, twitched once, and then went still.

There was some hope, however. Two of her captains, Charbyle and Talra rushed to her aid, charging out ahead of the rest of her forces. The Matron could see the haste spells that they had cast upon themselves, and knew that both of the elite soldiers carried a large array of arcane equipment. If any of her soldiers could cut down this surface soldier, it was them.

The Master Chief saw the two blitz in, with two more Minotaurs not far behind them. Their speed was not natural, he realized, and knew that they were the greatest threat to him at the moment aside from the Matron herself. He leveled his shotgun at one of them, and fired a round. As with the Balor, a shield flared to life. They would be upon him in milliseconds, he realized, and he fired twice more as he analyzed their attack pattern.

The one on the left carried a large glaive, the other carried twin swords as seemed to be the tradition among the Drow forces, with fire and lightning coursing their way over the swords. The one with the polearm was the greater threat. She would have greater reach and the two handed grip of the weapon meant that she would be able to put more force behind each blow. He had enough time for two more shots and then she was within striking range.

The Dark Elven female brought the glaive up high, slashing downward and intending to have the weapon bite into his neck. The Spartan twisted out of the way and fired another round as the second officer leapt in, her blades cutting a geometric pattern in the air. The Spartan allowed the blows to fall upon his shields, noticing an extra drop in the shields due to the elemental properties of the swords. He ducked underneath her next attack, and stuck his leg out, sweeping the captain's feet out from under her. The woman landed heavily, but was quick to return to her feet.

The other captain brought her glaive in, and again the Spartan was able to twist and turn the strike into a glancing blow. He emptied five rounds into her shields, and he noticed a weakening of them. The defenses would have made them almost unstoppable under normal conditions, but he was not normal.

He heard chanting behind him, and knew that the Matron was taking advantage of this situation to try and cast a spell once again. The rest of the bodyguards were also closing in on him fast. The Spartan jumped backwards, coming down six meters away, and lining up with the Matron. Loud, powerful booms rocked the cavern as the ASG-60 spat out its deadly payload. He also reached into his rucksack, and drew a flash bang grenade. He hurled it through the air, followed swiftly by a fragmentary. The captains seemed wise enough to cover their eyes and were shielded from the blinding light of the explosion. The slower moving, un-hasted troops behind them were not so fortunate. Robbed of their senses, they could not prepare themselves for the powerful HP-9's detonation, and the Master Chief nodded in satisfaction as he watched a half-dozen troops fall. One of the Minotaurs seemed to try and collect itself, though, despite all the wounds it had, and the fact that it probably couldn't see or hear anything.

The Spartan ignored it for the moment, Refocusing on the Matron. The flash bang seemed to have distracted her, but that blasted stone skin spell was still in full effect. Her captains also weren't going to give him the luxury of a turkey shoot. Despite the blood he could see streaming out of their ears, they rushed at him again, determined to put themselves between their commander and harms way.

The Spartan actually found himself grudgingly admiring their dedication to their duty, even if they were becoming thorns in his side. He had about twenty rounds left in his shotgun, and he leveled the weapon again. It was time to focus on one of them and remove them from the equation. Better one dead foe than two who were merely injured. He flicked the firing mode to full auto as the Drow blurred up into his face, and unleashed the gun's destructive fury. He shields faded as she closed to within range and thrust her spear forward.

The Master Chief grabbed the blade, his shields flaring as the razor sharp, arcane metal tried to cut through his defenses. Though she might have been on almost equal terms with him now as far as speed was concerned, strength was still a mismatch. The Spartan yanked backwards on the polearm, and tore it from the captain's grasp and threw it away in a single smooth motion. He blurred forward as her companion tried to come to her assistance and rammed his fist into her stomach.

Captain Charbyle felt an explosion of pain in her stomach as the sound of rending metal filled the air. She couldn't breathe and felt something alien and cold within her stomach. Moments later she realized that the reason for this was that her opponent's hand was wrapped around her stomach. There was a wet, sickening tear as her foe pulled its hand out of her, and she was aware that most of her bowels had left with him.

The Spartan knew that he had mortally wounded the woman, but she wasn't dead yet. Her hand went down to a dagger at her side, even as she vomited up blood and her body began to grow cool. Unsure of what enchantments might be on the dagger, the Spartan reached a bloodied hand around her neck, and twisted. Her spinal cord snapped and she went limp.

Much to his surprise, the other captain gave a scream of rage and came at him in a berserker-like fury. He blocked one blade with his forearm, but he was forced to drop his ASG as the other blade headed for it. He did not hesitate though and before the weapon had hit the ground, shifted to let the sword bypass him. He lashed out with a punch, which was stopped by the arcane shield that the captain had around her armor, but did have the force to send her stumbling backwards. The cyborg's hands blurred down to his sides. In his right hand, he grasped the M6D that he had on his hip, while his left drew the Helljumper Toothpick that he'd strapped to the back of his waist. Both were drawn in an instant, and he got off two shots of high explosive ammo before the woman charged back in.

The Master Chief leapt up over a strike aimed at his legs, and fired again. On the way back down, he swung his knife. The foot long blade clanged harshly against the adamantine sword, and he shoved the parry aside, powering through and slamming it against the barrier. At the same time, he slammed his head against the woman and drove a knee into her gut. Again, the barrier held, but he could feel it weakening. His motion sensor was detecting massive amounts of activity swarming towards him, and he knew he had to hurry up. The Balor was limping along, but it wasn't going to take it much longer to get into range.

He riposted another blow before slamming the butt of his M6D against the captain's head. The shields shattered, but had still managed to absorb most of the impact. The Chief, though, knew that he now had the advantage and seized on it. To her credit, the Dark Elf attempted to back away and disengage from him, realizing that she had just lost her greatest defense against this armored monster that she faced. She wasn't fast enough, though. The knife dove and the pistol fired. The 12.7 millimeter depleted uranium round tore through her leg and exploded while the knife's monomolecular blade sundered the besagew covering the woman's shoulder and a split second later hacked her arm off at the shoulder.

Now missing two limbs, the captain toppled to the ground. The Master Chief prepared to finish her off, leveling the pistol before something else caught his attention.

He cursed as he saw a shimmering field surrounding the Matron. While dead or dying, her elite bodyguards had bought their leader time to try to restore her defenses and another wave of mundane defenders were rushing to her aid. She spoke a harsh, alien word and the cyborg was blown off his feet and sent skidding more than ten meters. John grunted at the impact and vaulted back up while simultaneously returning both knife and pistol to their holsters. He gauged the distance between himself and his ASG-60, before deciding to simply get the spare that he'd brought with him. He'd have to thank Cortana once again when this was all over with. The sub-planes in these supply packs were saving him a great deal of trouble. Then he drew an incendiary grenade, and hurled it into the waves of her approaching rank and file defenders. Distantly, he thought he heard a crack of a short range teleportation spell, but he wasn't able to see anything new entering the fray.

Before he could contemplate the mystery any further there was a boom and a flash, and the Matron covered her eyes, shielding them from the blast as she felt the heat wash over her, and her newly cast shield spell weakened. How many charges remained within the ring if her shield failed again? Would it be enough to protect her long enough for Wendonai to close the distance and re-engage this monster that sought to kill her? She blinked and looked out again, horror filling her soul again as she realized that the latest wave of her bodyguards were gone, screaming as the flames consumed them.

She dropped an orb of darkness over herself, hoping that by blocking her foe's vision, she might buy herself enough time to firm up her defenses, and engage it in battle.

The Master Chief, however, was not fooled or even slowed. While the strange, arcane orb might have blocked his sight, it did nothing to prevent his motion sensor from tracking the Matron's movement within the orb, or the HUD waypoint marker that was right over her head. He fired into the darkness as he rushed forward, realizing that he could use the orb to his advantage and keep the Matron's remaining bodyguard off balance until the Balor was in position. He had to take down that stone skin spell and the recast shield anyway or there was a possibility, however remote, that the Matron would survive and this would all be for nothing.

His target was right in front of him, and he reached down, grabbing the Matron about where he estimated her throat would be based on her height. His calculations were accurate, and he felt his hand clamp down upon the stone and shield covered flesh. He yanked the woman off her feet as if she weighed no more than a feather; holding his ASG-60 in one hand, he fired it at point blank range into her torso. The flechettes bounced off the shield barrier, but he felt it fade after the last round hit. He was surprised, having expected something stronger. Perhaps she the fight had weakened her? Or maybe she did not have anything but her lesser spells to defend herself with at this point? Whatever the reason, he knew that he still had to chew through the stone skin spell. However, the cyborg remembered well the lessons that Neeshka had taught him in his first week here on this world and the nature of this spell.

The defense revolved around blocking a certain number of hits. Each flechette, therefore, would drain the spell a little bit, and when tallied together they added up alarmingly quickly.

The Spartan's motion sensors were alive with hostile movement and he cocked his left arm back and slammed the Matron into the stone pillar once more time as he turned to face the new threats. The blobs on his sensors were too small to be demons or large mortal creatures like Minotaurs, so that meant humanoids, probably another wave of Drow bodyguards, judging by the rate at which they were closing. The Spartan dropped his quarry long enough to draw another frag grenade, and hurled it out of the sphere. He felt the concussion from its detonation, and a great red ring appeared on his motion tracker, before fading away to stillness.

The dark orb began to fade, and he attempted to get visual confirmations on his motion sensor's readings. While many of the Dark Elves were dead and much of their corpses spread all over the stone floor of the cavern, they still attempted to rush towards him. Their resolve was almost beyond belief. The cyborg had ten shots left in his ASG-60, and he knew that he still had eight rounds left in his pistol. He took note of Wendonai at the same time. Forty meters and closing fast. The Spartan suspected that he had maybe five seconds before it was in melee range again. He focused on the approaching remnants of the bodyguard now, and fired three rounds into their ranks.

Behind him, Matron Hesken groaned and tried to rise to her feet. The Spartan kicked backwards, planting his heel into her chin as the Dark Elven soldiers still came at him, desperate to save their commander… Or was it really that kind of loyalty? Were they perhaps just running to escape the murderous hail of gunfire closer to the entrance of the cavern? Regardless of the cause, they were coming for him.

At their current speed, they would reach him before the Balor. The Spartan ejected the drum mag from his shotgun, hastily stuffing it down into his rucksack while summoning up another one. He locked it into position and chambered a round as the first bodyguard leapt at him. The Drow let out a battlecry, confirming it to be a female, and cocked a pair of curving swords back, ready to strike as she got in range. The Master Chief shifted as the blades descended and missed him by a few centimeters. Then he took a step forward, cocked a fist back, and lashed out. The Drow's head was covered by a barbute styled helmet, but against the sheer kinetic power of the Spartan's fist, it might as well have been papier-mâché. The cheek protectors and faceguard caved in and the woman's skull shattered as the armored gauntlet tore through and into her brainpan. She was dead before her body hit the floor.

The Spartan fired a round from his shotgun, targeting what appeared to be another officer or perhaps a sergeant, judging by the heavier armor that she wore. The flechettes ripped through her armor, her body, and into the soldier behind her. Both fell to the ground, dead. Another soldier attempted to flank, lashing out with an arming sword and a short dirk. The Spartan moved in a blur, leaning back out of the way of the strike. Cobra quick, John's iron hard grip was upon the woman's wrist and he twisted. Her bones snapped like kindling, and he flowed into an akido move, flipping the girl over and slamming her down onto the stone floor of the cavern.

John pulled out one of his psychological warfare tricks, and yanked backwards on the arm that he still held, while at the same time smashing his boot down onto the woman's chest. Her ribs shattered beneath the blow, and he knew he'd crippled and mortally wounded her. At the same time, he had pinned her, preventing her from moving when he'd yanked backwards on her arm. There was a sickening tear and popping noise, and the Spartan hurled the rended limb at the nearest Drow soldier. To the woman's credit, it didn't seem to affect her in the slightest.

His EM scanners spiked, warning him that Wendonai was about to launch more spells. The Spartan ducked and twisted to face the Balor, which roared and hurled a lightning bolt at him. John dodged to one side as the bolt ripped past, tearing a huge chuck of rock loose from the stone column behind him while Matron Hesken rolled behind the shaft of rock. The cyborg shifted his position to get a clear angle on his primary target, leveling his ASG-60 at Matron Hesken and firing off five more rounds at her. He nodded with satisfaction as the last round impacted and he saw her defensive spell finally fade.

Then he had to divert most of his attention to the Balor. It was time for the masterstroke of the plan. The mighty Demon let loose a battle cry that promised countless agonies, but the Spartan ignored it, focusing on the Demon. Like Matron Hesken, the Balor's defenses were down. All it had to protect it was its unnaturally tough hide and the armor that covered it.

It thrust its sword forward, but the Master Chief twisted to one side, slapping the blade away from himself and rolling forward, inside of the Demon's attack range. He aimed his ASG-60, and opened up. A quartet of flechette rounds tore through the adamantine boot on the Balor's left foot and shredded the extremity almost down to a stump. Wendonai howled, and breathed a gout of white hot hellfire that washed over the Spartan's shields and drained them by a third. The Spartan dodged out of the flame and kicked the Balor as hard as he could in the back of the knee. Bones cracked and the mighty Tanar'ri stumbled.

Another quartet of shotgun rounds, these to the kneecap, finished the job, blasting out the Demon's leg and forcing it to its knees. Wendonai was no fool, and it knew that to remain still against a foe like the Spartan would guarantee defeat. It spread its wings, meaning to take to the air, but the Spartan was faster. A half dozen rounds shredded the leathery membranes and sent rivers of agonizing pain through the demon. In desperation, it lashed out with its massive sword once again.

The Spartan easily evaded the clumsy strike, wrapping his hand around the Balor's wrist while slamming the stock of the ASG-60 into the Demon's elbow. Alien though its face may have been, it was not difficult for the Master Chief to see the look of horror on the Balor's face as it realized the position that it was in. There was a cracking of bone, so powerful and violent that the bones actually tore through the muscles and hide of the Balor's arm, sending streams of fiery blood flowing against the Demon's armor.

The Balor's hand went limp, and its sword began to drop. The Master Chief reached out and grabbed it before it could hit the ground, snapping it around and impaling one of the Matron's charging bodyguard's through the chest with it. He yanked it out just as quickly, as he saw his target starting to weave her hands around. He knew she was preparing a spell. Offensive or defensive in nature, he didn't know, nor did he care. He hurled the blade like a spear, catching the Matron through the stomach. She let out a scream as it went through her and pinned her to the stone. However, even that kind of wound would not necessarily be mortal to such a powerful Cleric, the cyborg knew. He had to finish the job.

He looked into Wendonai's hate filled eyes, and leveled his shotgun as the Drow bodyguards tried to swarm around the Demon's body and get to him, while others rushed to try to pull the sword out of their commander. He pulled the trigger, and sent a three shot burst through the Demon's head at point blank range. It flew apart like an overripe melon, and the body began to fall.

The Spartan wasted no time, turning for the side area of the cavern that he'd made his way along to get here, and charging towards it. The two bodyguards that had managed to flank him were knocked aside like bowling pins as he slammed past them.

His motion sensor indicated that some were pursuing him, but that most were trying to save their leader. He looked back over his shoulder and saw one of them feeding the woman a healing potion while two more ripped the Balor's massive sword from her gut. John never slowed down, running full tilt back towards the entrance of the cavern, looking for an ideal spot to get out in the open, away from all the potentially head crushing rocks that were likely to fall over in this area when the Balor's corpse went nuclear.

Distracted either by the pain of an ordinarily mortal injury, or concern for their leader, it was too late when the Dark Elves noticed that their infernal ally was indeed dead. Some tried to flee, Matron Hesken attempted to cast a spell to shield herself. None were fast enough. The Balor's corpse detonated like a two hundred kilogram bomb.

As the Spartan dodged and weaved his way towards the entrance amidst the cries of terror from the Underdark forces, he opened up a line with Cortana.

"Control, Sierra, mission objective accomplished. Repeat, mission objective accomplished."

* * *

Miles away, deeper down in the catacombs that eventually led upwards towards Mithril Hall, Triel Baenre gazed down at a scrying bowl. It was difficult to sort through all the interference that was being thrown up from the battle and she had little doubt that the average Drow priestess would have found the task nearly impossible. But as the first born child of Matron Baenre, the High Priestess was no ordinary cleric of Lolth. Tasks that the rank-and-file would have found impossible she breezed through, her mind focused by centuries of prayer and dedication to the Queen of Spiders. With otherworldly sight, she roved through the corridors, wincing as she saw the death and destruction that were befalling her people. This victory would be a bloody one, of that she had little doubt. But they were the Dark Elves. There was no race or nation on Torril that was greater than they. Casualties could be replaced eventually, and if this worked, they would have more power than ever.

At last though, she located her target. She looked up towards her mother and nodded her head.

"You have found the key?" The withered crone asked, tapping her fingers together.

"Yes, Matron," the younger Drow said with a bow. "Shall I give the order to attack?"

"No, not yet," Matron Baenre said softly. "The Dwarves and their wretched allies fight us in a strange manner. It is not yet time." The Matron's voice was neutral, but after so many centuries of being around her mother Triel had become adept at piercing the veil of stoicism her mother kept up.

Matron Baenre was fighting the urge to panic. Things were, simply put, not going according to plan, and they were both at a loss to figure out how they had miscalculated so badly, or how the Dwarves had managed to get their hands on whatever demons or otherworldly entities that had provided them with these thunder-staves that were tearing the Drow army apart.

"Watch and observe, see what you can learn of the target," the old Matron said, tapping her fingers yet again. "When the time comes you must be swift and decisive."

Triel resisted the urge to let out a sigh of relief. She had been hoping that her mother would say that. The more information that they had on the target and those around it, the better their chances of success. They would get only one shot at this, after all. She was also not exactly eager to go forth and spend any more time than she had to in that meat grinder that the battle was turning into. She nodded her head and returned to watching, her crimson eyes narrowed as she began to intently study the images before her.

Soon, soon, it would be time to strike. And failure would mean death and worse for her...

* * *

Unknown to the two Drow was that other eyes were upon them. From within his citadel, Helm looked down and watched them. He nodded his head slowly and his mind imagined a chessboard for a moment. The pieces were constantly shifting, maneuvering and changing positions. Actions that made no sense at the current moment linked together to become part of an overarching strategy that would only be revealed when one looked back.

In his mind, a single pawn was moved forward.

* * *

Okay, hope that chapter was good, or at least not a trainwreck like I fear it may be. I'm also hoping the plot advancements were decent and not completely contrived. I'm going to try and make an effort to get out of the bad habit of only updating these things once in a blue moon, and I again apologize for that. As always, questions, comments and feedback, good or bad, is more than welcomed. Thank you all so much for your time, and until next time, please stay safe.


	32. Chapter 31: Size Matters Not

Hello again everyone, sorry that this has taken me so long to get back to. Real life, computer issues, and some minor medical problems have kept me away from writing. To say nothing of my struggle to pay back my student loans. I've also been reworking these chapters from their rough draft stages, trying to get them more polished and making subtle changes that I hope will make for a better story than they were originally. Whether or not I will succeed is another matter entirely.

I also hope that I responded to everyone I could regarding their reviews, if I did miss you, please let me know so that I can. This story wouldn't be the same without the feedback you guys give me, and I need all of that that I can get, considering I am (very slowly) making progress on a novel that I hope to be able to one day publish.

Aside from that, I hope you've all been well in the meantime, and that this chapter is worth the wait. Mithril Hall's battle will be wrapping up in the next couple of chapters, and then there will hopefully be some downtime and plot advancement.

Wish me luck, I think I'll need it.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty One- Size Matters Not.**

* * *

Orna Fullsamee leapt backwards out of the way of his foe's swing. The fiery axe that the Balor carried was a nasty looking weapon; while the Ascetic had confidence that his shields would protect him from the worst that could be thrown at him, he didn't want to give the thing free hits when it was possible to avoid them.

Instead, he let loose with the weapon he held in his left hand: A type thirty-four guided munitions launcher. Redesigned from the old type thirty-three, the new needler was more ergonomically friendly now, with the ammo block contained inside of the gun, and a more traditional long-arm design. A squeeze of the trigger sent a burst of four pinkish-purple crystals from the gun, which streaked towards the Balor. The large spikes punctured its flesh and it howled in pain. Orna tried to fire another burst, but the creature teleported out of the line of fire. The Sangheili warrior understood what was coming. The short range teleports had not been blocked by the wards the magi had raised around the area, and that meant…

The Ascetic ducked and rolled forward. Moments later an axe passed over his head. As he leapt back up, a lightning bolt struck his shields, draining them by a third. Orna gave a roar and fired again, the spikes homing in on the target. Another four connected, eight altogether. More than enough.

The crystalline rounds of ammunition began to hum and resonate as their energy signatures linked up and amplified off of one another. A half second later, they detonated and blew a hole large in its chest large enough that the Elite could have stuck his head inside it. The Balor screamed in agony and hunks of flesh smacked wetly as they landed amongst the rock, while fiery blood poured out of the wound. Orna knew, however, that the Balor could survive such an assault and responded by sending out more crystals. The demonic commander ignored the massive hole in its chest and teleported away again.

This time it appeared right above the Ascetic, forcing Orna on the defensive. Axe and clawed hand descended, forcing the Sangheili to quickly holster his weapon and draw his swords. He crossed them together and blurred into action. The blade in his left hand blocked the axe, while his other one lashed out and cut three fingers off the Balor's other hand. It bellowed in rage and wounded pride, and summoned up a fireball. The Elite dodged to the side, before rushing in and slicing to and fro with his twin blades.

As he stabbed with one, sliced with the other, Orna caught sight of the Master Chief over at the far end of the cavern, fighting against the Matron's bodyguards. He longed to go assist the Spartan, but knew that he had to keep this Demon away from Bruenor. He had failed to safeguard enough things for one lifetime as it was.

The Balor was quick, and was able to block one strike with its axe, while the blade in Orna's right hand plunged home, tearing a great gash in the Demon's abdomen. It howled for a third time and staggered backwards, but it was still on its feet. The Elite cursed the fiend's unnatural tolerance for high temperatures. It made slicing through the hide and flesh difficult, and Orna suspected that if he were any weaker, he would be hard pressed to keep up an offensive.

Still, he kept fighting. He thrust one of his blades forward yet again, while bringing the other one around to slash at the unguarded arm of his foe. The Balor, its mind sharpened by thousands of years of infernal combat, reacted quickly enough to summon up a shield to cover its arm, and Orna's plasma blade bit deep into the enchanted metal. His other attack was slightly more successful, the twin tips of the energy sword drawing blood as it parted hide and flesh. The Balor shouteded some manner of infernal curse and countered with a sweep of its axe.

In a blinding motion, Orna got his left arm up and parried the strike, but found himself still having to leap backwards to escape the shield as the Balor began to use it as a bludgeoning instrument. He wasn't completely successful and was knocked backwards, his shields crackling to life and dropping by a quarter as the Balor's 'punch' picked him up off the ground and sent him flying through the air. The Elite skidded and rolled across the rocky ground, the impact knocked the needler loose from its holster. Instincts arose within the Ascetic and he knew he had to get back up. He shifted his center of gravity and flipped back up to his feet some twelve meters away from his adversary. Undeterred by the Balor's renewed offensive, Orna sheathed one of his blades and drew a UNSC MA5K carbine from his rucksack. The scaled down weapon felt as light as a pistol in his hand and though he did not hold the foregrip, Orna knew that at the range he was at, it would be impossible to miss.

He fired a burst of five rounds at his foe as he strafed around it, seeking an optimum combat angle, but remaining aware of where his allies were within the cavern. It would not due to be the cause of a friendly fire incident. The Balor turtled down behind the massive tower shield that it had summoned, seeking to keep the arcane metal between itself and this strange opponent. Orna kept shooting, the mach four depleted uranium kept hammering the shield in bursts, pushing the Balor slightly off balance and denting up its shield.

"I will crush your body and devour your soul!" it shouted at him in Faerunian Common, its voice grating at the Sangheili's mind.

Orna shot off another five round burst, his HUD indicating that he had twelve rounds left in the magazine. He was keeping his foe pinned down, unable to move or cast spells at the moment, but the Sangheili Ascetic knew that he needed to do more than that. He needed to kill this fiend. Adrenaline boiled through his blood and his golden eyes narrowed. The Elite stuck the weapon to the back of his armor and reached back down into his rucksack. He withdrew a plasma grenade as his mandibles clacked together in the Sangheili variant of a smirk. The Balor might have had a supernatural tolerance for heat, but that shield didn't. He threw the burning orb with all of his strength, and just as he'd hoped, the weapon stuck.

The Balor didn't seem to notice what he'd done, but it felt it moments later, when the grenade detonated. The shield was utterly destroyed, and the Balor growled in pain from the heat, which was intense enough to hurt even it, but also from the white hot fragments of metal that were sent flying through its body as the grenade turned its own shield against it.

When the heat flash cleared, Orna nodded with satisfaction. The Balor's arm was little more than strips of shredded meat, while a dozen wounds on its chest and abdomen sent fiery blood pouring down over its skin. The Demon was breathing raggedly, and Orna knew that he had hurt it, hurt it badly. It was time to finish this thing.

The Balor was not yet ready to concede the battle, though. The mighty Demon gestured with its remaining arm, and bolts of fire and lightning twisted together, swirling as they rushed towards the Sangheili. Orna was able to evade most of the attack's fury, but an alarm warbled in his ear as his shields dropped to dangerously low levels. The Ascetic growled, and decided upon a course of action that was so inherently reckless that no sane creature would think to do it: he charged headlong at his Demonic foe.

Even wounded, Balors were more than a match for nearly any mortal upon the face of Faerun, the powerful creature's were virtually armies unto themselves, and only the staunchest or most suicidal would have ever willingly closed the distance and come to blows. However, Orna had confidence in his skills. He had trained all his life in art of swordsmanship, could trace his lineage back through more than two score of the finest blade masters of his people. He had stood his ground and gone toe to toe with a Spartan, and with the mightiest of the Jirahliae chieftains and survived. He did not fear the Balor, but the Ascetic swore that before this was over with, he would make the fiend fear _him_.

The Balor had been attempting to cast another spell, but the Elite's powerful legs propelled him forward at nightmarish speed. He closed the distance between himself and his foe in less than two seconds, not enough time for the Demon to finish casting. It had a choice, either to try to finish the incantation it was chanting and leave itself vulnerable, or to let the spell fizzle out and try to hold off the strange creature it faced in melee combat.

It opted for the latter, and brought it axe down, before swinging it back and forth; its actions created a dizzying defensive matrix in front of it. Orna had speed and strength over his foe. The Balor had reach and impossible durability.

Plasma sword met infernal axe, and what followed was a blur as the Elite and the Demonic general fought back and forth. Orna stabbed his right blade forward again, bringing the left about in a mighty swing aimed straight at the shoulder of the Demon. The Balor shifted, rolling with the blow, but it could not avoid it entirely and the Ascetic's plasma blade sliced a hunk off its arm. The Demon's blood hissed as it dripped against the stone floor, and it backed away. The Balor glared at him as it tried to circle, and Orna noticed its malice-filled eyes were darting around, as if it were searching frantically for some means of leveling the battle. Its eyes widened, and Orna heard it hiss out a few words in its infernal tongue. He lunged in, striking swiftly with both of his swords.

The Balor was able to parry one strike, but the second one got through and cleaved most of what was left of its shield arm from its body. Amazingly, the Balor was able to finish its chant, and moments later, a hovering, glowing sword appeared at its side, floating freely. The weapon swung in cutting into Orna's shields, but failing to penetrate.

The Sangheili retreated momentarily, analyzing the sudden change in the battle. He recognized the floating blade as a Mordenkainen's sword, a semi-self-aware weapon that was mentally controlled by its summoner. The lack of an attached arm eliminated both a potential vulnerability for him to exploit as well as the traditional limitations imposed by wrist movements. However, the sword itself was still vulnerable, and while it was a potent arcane spell, he had faith that his weapons were the better.

The information had crossed through his mind and he had processed his new plan of attack in barely two blinks of an eye, his mental thoughts honed by decades on the battlefield. Then he charged back in. He struck high and low, his right sword slashing downwards, his left stabbing at the Balor's right leg. The demon moved both axe and summoned blade to protect itself, but it did not perceive the feint that the stab really was. He changed the thrust halfway through, putting all of his might into a horizontal slash that connected with the demon's impromptu secondary weapon just above the crossguard. Enchanted metal met super-heated plasma, and Orna's sword scored a deep gouge in the blade, causing it to shudder as it flew back to the Demon's side.

A beeping noise in his left ear let Orna know that his suit's shields were recharging. The visor hid the fiendish, predatory grin that came to his mandibles as his other main advantage in this battle manifested itself.

His defenses could recharge. His foe's could not.

The Balor tried to suddenly steal back the offensive, oblivious to the renewed defenses it now faced. It brought its axe down in a mighty chop, trying to split Orna in half, while its Modenkainen's Sword stabbed forward. The Ascetic was a blur as he shifted to the right, parrying both strikes, while hammering down on the summoned sword one more time, scoring another deep cut into it. He could see fear and uncertainty manifesting on the face of his foe, and all it did was increase the cold-blooded aggression that Orna felt coursing through his body.

The fear and terror that the Balor felt was becoming manifest and its would-be counterattacks and attempts to steal back the offensive were becoming more frantic and sloppier. The Sangheili warrior parried and riposted in a series of blurs that struck home a half-score glancing wounds in less than three seconds. Blood streamed from all the injuries that the Balor had suffered, further affecting its movements. It was slowing down, its breath coming in ragged gasps and the burning realization in its eyes was clear: it was dying, and it knew it. Even if it were to somehow win the battle, its banishment from this plane was not long in coming.

The Demonic general brought its summoned sword down in a mighty chop, once again trying to cleave Orna in two, while its axe came in from below, trying to slice in at the Elite's ribs and cut upwards until it came out at the right shoulder. Orna saw his opening, and he took it. One plasma sword leapt to intercept the summoned blade, smashing into it and cutting through the enchanted metal, destroying the weapon utterly. His other caught the infernal axe underneath the head, and the Ascetic ripped his plasma sword backwards. The Balor, weakened by pain and its multitude of injuries, could do nothing to stop the axe from being ripped out of its grip. As the weapon clanged harshly against the cavern floor, Orna ducked down and stuck out one of his legs. He swept the Balor off its feet, and the Demon landed hard against the stone.

Without pause, the Sangheili leapt up into the air, coming down on the Balor's ribs. The Elite heard the bones underneath crack and shatter beneath his cloven hooves. One blade dove in for the Balor's throat, the other down the right side of its body. The Demonic general was able to twist its head to one side, avoiding the worst of the strike aimed at its throat, but it could do nothing to stop Orna from amputating not only its remaining arm, but also the right wing.

A howl of pain shook the cavern as the Balor shook itself like a dog, splattering blood everywhere and forcing Orna off of it. Still, the Elite wore his smile. He had almost won. The Balor was defenseless, trying awkwardly to rise up without any arms. It was looking over at him, and Orna could see a look in its eyes. His EM scanners started to spike, and he realized it was going for broke and trying to summon up another Hellstorm spell. The Elite leaped at his foe like a panther pouncing on its prey. He spread both of his arms wide, and when he was in range, struck. Both plasma swords found their mark, cutting home and decapitating the Balor.

He turned to run, knowing that he had but seconds to escape from his foe, pausing only to scoop his needler back up. Still, there was sufficient distance between his allies and the blast, and that was all that mattered right now, aside from killing the matron.

Moments later, his opponent's body became its own funeral pyre. The cavern shook, and Orna was tempted to start chanting a traditional Sangheili victory poem. A small measure of pride filled the Ascetic as he rushed back over towards the rest of the Hunter Killer Teams, and he knew in his heart that this would be a day he would tell his children of, and his children's children, until the time came when he left this coil.

As he rejoined his squadron, Orna's radio crackled to life.

"To all HK Teams, this is Oracle One; we have a field update for you."

* * *

Drizzt Do'Urden felt the familiar grips of his scimitars in his hands as he lead his group of Hunter-Killers towards the coordinates that Cortana had given him. He had seen little combat so far, having been stationed more towards the upper tunnels in case his dark hearted brethren had tried something unexpected, but he had heard all the radio chatter. There were hundreds of thousands dead, slave and Dark Elf alike.

The forces of his people, which had taken thousands of years to reach this point, had been all but wiped out in the span of a few hours. The Ranger tried to wrap his head around the concept, remembering the House wars that he'd seen from time to time in his youth, and one instance where the attacking House had failed and been purged as a consequence. This, he tried to tell himself, was like that, only magnified a thousand times. How hard it was to create things like life and civilization. How much easier it was to tear them down.

The Dark Elf glanced down at his hip, where a sub-machinegun bounced lightly against a plate of UNSC ballistic armor. Commander Keyes had insisted that he carry both, stating that it would be better to not need them and have them available, than need them and not have them. He was uncomfortable with the weapon and frowned as he rushed down the tunnels of Mithril Hall. He understood, now, why the people of the UNSC warred the way they did and how these weapons were necessary to their very survival, but something about them still made him feel wrong. The armor plating, though, was magnificent. It was lightweight, comfortable, and did not impede his movement or natural agility. At the same time, it was as strong as dragonscale and he knew that its plates would offer fantastic protection against the blades of his people.

It was also the first time that he actually felt comfortable wearing a helmet, having found anything heavier than skullcap too heavy and restricting for his tastes. The "data monocle" that covered the left side of the shatter proof visor was useful as well, pointing out the waypoints that Cortana had set up for his group, while at the same time telling him about how deep the Umber Hulks that were burrowing down were, and about how long it would be until they arrived.

His thoughts were pushed back into reality as he reached the waypoint marker and signaled the halt to those behind him. Dove moved up next to him, her blade out and at the ready. Two Silverymoon troops moved up along their flanks, each carefully bracing a double-barreled rocket launcher on their shoulders. At the moment, Cortana had predicted a high probability that the Drow would attempt to use the enchanted Umber Hulks not only to dig the tunnels, but also to act as a kind of heavy duty shock trooper to clear any opposition from within the areas surrounding their holes. Their massive size would also enable them to shield their much smaller masters as they teleported in and against traditional forces would be nigh unstoppable.

The Dark Elf readied himself as he saw the numbers telling him the distance between himself and the attackers diminish as the minutes passed. Over the radio, he heard the Master Chief announce that he was preparing to link up with Bruenor and his group, and go hunting one of the heads of the Hydra that was this fiendish army.

"All Hunter Killers brace. Enemy contact imminent." Commander Keyes relayed to them.

"I see them coming," Drizzt replied, readying himself.

He steadied his breathing as the rocky roof in front of them began to crack and split, and knew that this was it. He was about to half to shed the blood of his people once again. His violet eyes narrowed as the stones began to fall from where the magically enhanced umber hulks were rapidly tearing the roof asunder. First in one place, and then another, and then a third, until everything was tumbling down.

True to Cortana's prediction, the elephant sized monsters dropped down first. They saw the defenders, and opened their insect-like jaws to roar at them.

"Fire!" an officer shouted.

The trooper to the Dark Elf's left fired his rocket at the closest monster, perhaps some seventy feet away. It gave a shriek as it tore through the air and the temperature of the cavern rose noticeably. While the Faerunian soldiers were not yet crack shots with the launchers, at this range, it would have been impossible to miss. The one hundred and two millimeter, shaped charge warhead was nearly going supersonic when it connected with the chest of the Umber Hulk. The five-kilogram warhead packed a punch that could open anything short of a Scorpion or a Rhino tank open like an orange. With only its organic shell and its flesh, the Umber Hulk never stood a chance.

Its roar became a death rattle as the blast vaporized a man-sized hole in its chest, while almost hypersonic metal tore through its innards and out of its back. Nearly ripped in two, it slumped to the ground, blood flowing everywhere.

The soldier to Drizzt's left fired next; his shot killed the second beast and then the one on the right fired his other barrel, his aim going a little high and sheering off the head of the final umber hulk. While they could not be employed as shock troopers now, there brutes had still more than served their purpose. Within seconds, the flashes of teleportation spells lit up the large cave they were in, announcing the arrival of more slaves and Dark Elven forces. No doubt, Drizzt surmised, they were eager to get down here, out of the slaughterhouse that the battlefield outside the mountain had turned into.

The Ranger, for a single, split second, pitied them in their ignorance. Silverymoon troops had brought forth portable cover; some were plated bits of metal from the Dawn's heavy weapons armories to shield the heavy machineguns, while others deployed portable Covenant energy shields. The sudden appearance of these shimmering energy fields threw the attackers off guard, and left them vulnerable to what happened next: a barrage of flash bangs.

He watched as Orcs, Gray Dwarves, Kobolds, and Dark Elves were rendered helpless and blind before the mighty weapons, and then mercilessly cut down by the hail of gunfire that followed. The rounds from the heavy guns were far more powerful than the infantry weapons, and he watched as a Dark Elf, a young one, probably not much older than he was when he first went to the academy, take a round to the gut. The force of the depleted uranium round punched through his adamantine chain armor, and ripped him in half. The gore went everywhere, but for a few moments, the young elf continued to live, crawling around on the ground, his shrieks of pain inaudible over the screams of his fellows.

Drizzt forced himself to remain stoic. Why? He wondered. Why didn't his people withdraw? Why did they continue like this? They should have broken long ago. They should be trying to flee back down to the lower tunnels, not reengage the enemy now that they had escaped the killing fields. Even the slaves should have been trying to revolt under these circumstances.

In his heart he knew the answer, but he had never thought that it would be taken this far, to these sorts of extremes. His people feared Lolth, more than death itself. Dark Elves who died in failure were doomed to spend an entirety in the Abyss being tortured by her foul servants as a penance for their crimes. By rushing forward like this, there was a chance, however slim, that they might be able to mitigate that type of damnation. The slaves were similar. Death was preferable to life under his people. This was simply a foe-assisted suicide.

This would continue until Matron Baerne called for the troops to withdraw and return to Menzoberranzan. How long that would take, he did not know. She might not have even been aware of just how lopsided things were up here.

Something tugged at Drizzt's heartstrings as he saw another group of Dark Elves, freshly arrived via teleport, get mulched by machinegun fire before they had even taken a few steps. He knew in his heart that the odds of his people ever managing to recover from this was becoming increasingly slim and the outlook for the survivors ever more bleak; provided of course, that there were in fact survivors to begin with.

The Underdark was a harsh place, and if the other races and entities that lived down there sensed weakness, they would pounce. He was uncertain how some of the more distant cities would fare, but he was now certain that his home city would be doomed when this matter was finished.

There was a crack from behind and he whirled around, Icingdeath and Twinkle raised and ready to cut into the flesh of his evil kin. Sure enough, one of the wizards had teleported in behind them. Bullets lit up the darkness with their heat as the spellcaster was targeted and swiftly cut down before he could get any more spells off.

"Do not waste your ammunition on the fodder!" Drizzt shouted as he dove into the midst of the enemy, Dove at his side once more. Surprised by his sudden arrival, the pair of Kobolds that he had targeted never had time to raise a defense and he took their heads off without even slowing down. A Grey Dwarf died next as the Ranger parried his urgosh with Icingdeath and then stabbed Twinkle through his throat.

He ducked underneath the swing of an Orc that would have severed his head, both of his blades blurring forward as he stabbed them into its belly and ripped them out from the sides. The Orc gasped and slumped to its knees as its guts pooled out over the floor before a follow up slice finished him off.

To his right, Dove was hard at work as well, weaving her blade around in a myriad of beautiful, if extremely deadly, patterns. The sword cut geometrical shapes in the air as she parried and blocked strikes from an Orc and a Drow soldier, working in a smooth rhythm with the occasional abrupt jab or slice to keep her two foes off balance. Drizzt found himself grateful for the narrow state of the tunnels. It mitigated the numeric advantage that their foes would normally enjoy, forcing battles to rely more on individual skill than overwhelming numbers.

That, or someone carrying a firearm with enough ammunition, he thought to himself as the staccato noises of UNSC weaponry echoed within the confines of the tunnel . The Dark elf cut down another Orc and maneuvered his way over towards his fellow Ranger.

Dove's hand and a half sword parried the strike from an Orc axe and she followed through with the move, catching the rear part of the axe head with the crossguard of her blade, pivoting the pommel around and smashing the brute's face in. The Orc staggered backwards, spitting blood and teeth out of its mouth as Dove reversed the stroke and tore a second smile in its throat. It stumbled to the ground gasping and choking in its death throes. The others approached her more warily, realizing that this female was a dangerous, deadly adversary.

Reinforcements materialized behind them, another wizard and his troops.

"Down!" Drizzt cried, and he and Dove both dropped to their knees as flash bang grenades soared over their heads and landed in the midst of the troops. They went off with a deafening roar, making the Dark Elf's sensitive ears ring despite the protection afforded by his helmet. Through his closed eyes he saw the world turn a bright red and the sound of gunfire whizzing over his head punctuated the cries of the wizard as his defenses failed before the onslaught. Twenty-five years of training, and probably the better part of a century's worth of arcane talent was wiped out in seconds by the murderous fire of the defensive teams.

The Drow Ranger watched the wizard fall, great gaping holes ripped through his body and felt something start to tear inside of him as more troops surged forward and he found himself locked up in melee once again, fighting a pair of Gray Dwarves. One of them sneered as he used his tower shield to block a strike from Twinkle, but the Dark Elf, an artist of his craft, used the scimitar's curved shape to his advantaged, twisting his wrist around and pivoting the blade to where it reached over the metal lip of the shield and punctured the mail of the Dwarf's gauntlets. Stumbling backwards, the Druegar howled in agony.

As Drizzt parried a strike from the other one, he plunged Twinkle home. The glowing blue scimitar darted around the clumsy swipe that the wounded Gray Dwarf made, and found a temporary sheath in the Underdark soldier's heart. Drizzt twisted the blade and ripped it out, turning his full attention to the other Druegar for the split second he was able, before another would arise to fill the spot that the first left absent with his death. All the while, he could hear the battle raging as gunfire created a deafening chaos of rapid echoes punctuated by the cries of the dying and the occasional scream of a defender that was cut down by a spell.

The remaining Gray Dwarf, seeing the fate of his comrade, screamed in anger, and lunged towards the Drow Ranger. Drizzt was ready, though, and parried the war mace that the Dwarf carried before he stabbed Icingdeath through a hole in his foe's defenses. He disemboweled the Dwarf a moment later, kicking the dying body backwards onto the ground and letting it tumble backwards. Its guts would make the stone slippery, and might trip those trying to move up and engage him next.

A pair of Dark Elves lunged forward next, each carrying an arming sword and a dirk. All four blades came forward in a blinding array of thrusts and slashes. However, Drizzt was prepared. This was little different from the fight that he had had with a Marilith during one of his days back at Melee Mathgar when he was still being trained. There were many blades to counter, but the dual attack by the other Dark Elves limited the number of strike options that they had. Drizzt was able to anticipate what attack moves they were setting up and was ready to meet their blades with his own.

He turned aside a thrust as it began to move forward, countering it in a manner so as to put his opponent off balance. Then Icingdeath sliced up into the path of an overhand chop, Twinkle actually darting in to land a glancing cut against the Drow's lightly protected arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Dove slice down a trio of Orc in rapid succession, and he noticed that it was more fodder that stepped forward to face her, rather than the Dark Elves themselves.

Why, he wondered for a moment, as he deflected and maneuvered out of the way of a series of rapid jabs from the Drow in front of him. The answer hit him as he successfully riposted the follow up attacks. He was Drizzt Do'Urden, the Dark Elf that had dared to turn his back on his House. The one who had dared to blaspheme against Lolth and destroyed one of her greatest 'gifts', a Zin -Carla. Never had there been a traitor to Menzoberranzan such as he. Any who slew him would not only receive great material wealth and prestige, but a place of honor at Lolth's side when their end came. Fanaticism pushed them to this.

He saw his opponent's faces, noted how young they were, probably not even past their seventh decade, if he were to hazard a guess. So young…

Rage filled him. A burning hate for the dark goddess that pushed her people to the brink of annihilation for her own mad desires. The fiend that turned brother against brother, mother against child in a sick, twisted game of power. A fire awoke in his soul and his eyes gleamed with a cold light. The Hunter arose, and this time he did not deny it. He embraced the beast and let it swarm over him. Strength filled his muscles and icy fury ruled over all.

The two Dark Elves that were facing him halted their offensive for in a split second. They realized that something had changed about their foe, almost as if he were a different man. Too late, they realized that the renegade who had once sworn to never shed the blood of his people was gone. In his place was a calculating, unfeeling killer.

The Hunter blurred forward, Twinkle and Icingdeath promising a release from the tyranny of physical reality. The Dark Elven pair were good, the Hunter realized, but their hesitation cost them. They almost managed to recover before it was upon them. That split second delay was all that it needed. It came in low, striking at waist level against the one on its right. Arming sword and dirk tried to intercept, but were too slow. Twinkle punched through the mail, through the padding underneath, and down until it emerged from the Elf's groin. A horrible scream split the air, but the Dark Elf's companion never heard him. At the same time Twinkle was rushing home, Icingdeath was stabbed upward, blasting through the hole in the Dark Elf's defenses left by the delay, and finding the soft, vulnerable flesh of the underside of the jaw. Blood froze and muscle stiffened as the scimitar's tip went up and pierced the brainpan. The Dark Elf died before he even understood that he'd been hit.

The Hunter advanced, cutting down the next pair, and then another after that. Then came the slaves. They fell like wheat before the scythe.

Dove watched with a mixture of awe and horror at this strange creature that moved forward. Gray Dwarf, Kobold, Orc, Dark Elf, it did not matter. This stranger who wore Drizzt's skin cut them down, stabbed them, decapitated them, or sliced out their bowels. They broke and fled before him, some of them actually raising arms against their Drow masters rather than face the strange Dark Elf that fought for the enemy.

The Hunter advanced still, but then it suddenly stopped as it noticed the infighting and remembered the weight that bounced against its hip. The Hunter was as logical as it was ferocious. It cared nothing for honor, for nobility, pride, or any other emotion. It existed to strike down the enemy. In a blur, twinkle had been sheathed, and out came the UNSC issued SMG. Those who still sought to face the Hunter, rather than their masters, looked on for a moment in confusion as to why their assailant was stopping.

Their answer came when a three round burst of five-millimeter caseless rounds tore through a Druegar. The Gray Dwarf squealed like a stuck pig, as it realized that the thunderbolts, or whatever had just been unleashed from the strange wand, had ripped it open and spilled most of its guts out. The Dwarf moved to try to catch them, and then tumbled forward.

Three more bursts filled the air in rapid succession and as many slaves fell. Whatever desire might have been left in some to face this butcher fled and they turned, forcing their Drow masters in the rear to turn all their attention to dealing with the small-scale revolt. That distraction left them vulnerable, and the Hunter was eager to take advantage of that. It raised the SMG, sighted up a target—a Dark Elf officer—and let fly. A double tap caught the Elf in the head, which exploded inside of its helmet and the Drow dropped like a rock.

Again it fired. Again, a Drow trooper fell. When the gun clicked empty, there was no hesitation. The Hunter sheathed Icingdeath, and ejected the magazine. The Hunter grabbed another one before the empty one had hit the ground, slid the new one in and primed it, before ripping the enchanted scimitar back out in its left hand.

The SMG barked again and again, and soon everything was dead save for a handful of wounded slaves. The Hunter realized that the mighty thundering of the large guns up front had quit, and Cortana was confirming all hostiles dead or down, when it moved forward to finish off the wounded. A number of injured slaves trembled and cried out as it approached, some trying to crawl back down the tunnel, while two of the Kobolds grabbed each other and tried to hobble away. It raised the SMG and prepared to fire, when it felt something grab its wrist. Out of the corner of its eye, the Hunter saw Dove.

"No." she gripped the Dark Elf's hand tighter. "Don't kill them. Let them surrender."

There was a pleading in those eyes. Something foreign, something alien to the Hunter. Was it fear? Fear of it? Of seeing the darker side of the renegade Drow? The Hunter started to slip away, back into the dark recesses of Drizzt's mind, as the Ranger reemerged.

Drizzt blinked and stared around in confusion. He saw the gun that he held, and looked down. He saw the spent magazine, hot against the cavern floor. And, he saw his armor, bright against the darkness, covered with slowly cooling blood. He looked around and saw the bodies that he'd hacked apart, and the ones he'd gunned down. His hand shook, and the SMG fell, clattering against the ground. The wounded slaves looked at the strange woman who had just saved their lives, and cautiously raised their arms in surrender.

"HK-35, I need a sit-rep. Drizzt, Dove, talk to me." It was Keyes.

"HK-35 here," Dove responded. "The area's clear. We have prisoners, and will return to nearest strongpoint with them. You can begin interrogations then."

"Roger that, Oracle One out."

Drizzt shuddered as the group began to pack up, and looked down at the gun he had dropped. His hand shaking, he picked it back up, and tucked it away. The Commander wouldn't like him leaving the weapon out here when it could be returned, at any rate… to say nothing of what might happen if the wrong person found it. Still, as he walked past the bodies of his slain kin, it was hard to fight down the nausea that rushed through him as he realized the full extent of what had been done here. What _he_had done here.

* * *

"Advance forward, keep suppression fire upon the enemy ranks as they withdraw, then hit them with grenades when they try and dig in."

The words left Gazap's mouth as he stared around at the strange mix of the team that he was attached to. The Unggoy sub-commander had ten of his fellows under his control at the moment, and the remaining twenty members of HK-28, as the group had been designated, were composed of a combination of Iron Fist and Battlehammer clan Dwarves. As he raised a customized Neo-Covenant plasma carbine, Gazap found himself in awe of the bearded Humanoids. Far from being the manual laborers and sub-primal workers that he had initially assumed they were, these beings were full of pride in themselves and their abilities. They fought with a ferocity that could only come from defending ones home from a hostile intruder.

The Unggoy shuddered at the thought of what would happen when these Dwarves started making widespread use of firearms and plasma weaponry. Only the most suicidal of enemies would dare to attack them then.

Their mastery of close combat, their courage and steadfastness, their loyalty to one another. In the Dwarves of Ironfist and Battle-Hammer, Gazap saw everything he wanted his people to become, everything they should be in the new society that was being forged from the wreckage of the Covenant. As he leveled his carbine and fired at a Kobold, he watched another one fire a small crossbow at one of the Ironfist Dwarves. The Kobold was a good shot, and the bolt neatly found a home between the Dwarf's shoulder plates and his chest armor.

The small soldier, however, merely gave a growl and charged on regardless. He reached a mass of the diminutive, scaled troops in front of the crossbowman, and smashed into them, joined moments later by the rest of his battle line. The Dwarves went to work with their axes, swords, and hammers, and within seconds, body parts were flying to and fro as they demonstrated their mastery of the art of war.

"Leave the fodder to our allies!" Gazap called to his men. "Focus on the ones to the rear, the Drow especially," he pressed himself up against a large stalagmite and leaned around it to fire at the forms he could see skulking at the rear of the cavern. "Slay their masters, and the dogs will fold!"

Unggoy knew that fact better than anyone did. Three times Gazap had faced Spartans, and three times had he watched as the death of a Sangheili commander sent his fellow Grunts nearly mad with panic and fear, enabling the Spartans to slaughter them at will. He suspected those who faced the "Demon" under the command of the Brutes suffered a similar fate. Such were the errors of slave-troops.

A bolt of blue plasma streaked from his gun, taking a Dark Elf clean in the face and vaporizing his head. More fire from his comrades joined in, forcing the Dark Elven commanders back behind what cover they could find.

"Flush them out!" Gazap ordered.

"Priming grenades," the voice of three of his soldiers crackled over the radio, and the bright little balls began to hiss and burn. They streaked through the air moments later, small suns in the darkness, bringing with them promises of a fiery death. They landed behind the stalagmites and ridges that the Dark Elves were using for cover, and one of them jumped up suddenly. Gazap could see that the Underdark Elf had one of the grenades stuck to his arm, and was frantically trying to rip the device off. The Unggoy sub-commander grinned behind his rebreather as the weapon detonated. The three explosions shook the cavern and filled the air with molten rock and vaporized bits of stone and Dark Elf.

Some of the Kobolds looked back to see the fate of their overseers; just as expected the courage instilled in them by the fear of the whip evaporated. Their battle line crumbled as the Unggoy soldiers began to fire into their rear ranks, striking them down. Those in the rear were cut down by plasma fire, those in the front by enraged Dwarven soldiers, and those in the middle were torn between what to do. The result was a large muddled mess that the Hunter-Killer team easily mopped up.

It took less than a minute for the last Underdark soldier to fall. Gazap nodded as he surveyed the carnage. "Regroup," he said, opening a line up to Cortana and Commander Keyes. "HK-28 here, sector two-four-nine clear. Regrouping and preparing to advance to sector two-six-eight. Have a few wounded, no KIA's yet. Team at approximately ninety five percent combat potential."

"HK-28 status acknowledged. Be advised the Dark Elves are moving forces into that area. Expect large numbers of enemy troops." Commander Keyes said.

"Roger, Oracle One," Gazap said.

He turned his attention back to the men under his command. "Pack it up, move, move!" he barked, accentuating his orders with harsh cutting gestures of his hands.

He hardly needed to. The Dwaves were back in formation almost instantly, palming their weapons, eager for more fighting. His own troops fell into line behind them, and the group was on its way again.

Less than two minutes later, they again made contact with the enemy. The beginnings of sector two-six-eight was a large cavern, roughly oval in shape and about eighty meters long. Thousands of years worth of dripping water had created an unusual series of 'ridges' that rose up from the floor of the cavern, and no sooner had the two forces spotted each other, than the Underdark column of troops scattered and took shelter behind these. Or rather, the wise ones did. A couple of Dark Elves ordered their slaves head on towards the defenders of Mithril Hall.

"Open fire!" Gazap shouted, leveling his plasma carbine at the Drow Overseer and squeezing off a shot. The plasma bolt struck home and burned through the Dark Elf's mail armor and into his chest. The man crumpled like a sack of bricks as the other Unggoy soldiers opened fire with everything from pistols, to modified carbines, to a needler. The plasma rounds ripped into the ranks of the Dark Elves, while the soldier firing the needler targeted the center of the slave troop formation. The homing munitions zipped in and spread throughout three targets. However, the slaves—goblins in this case—were close enough together that the resonance energies were able to go off. A high-pitched whine filled the cavern, followed by a pinkish-purple explosion. Shrapnel from the exploding crystals shredded everyone in proximity to the explosion, and body parts rained down from above.

Gazap turned around to his Dwarven soldiers. "Flank around to the right, find the ones hiding behind those ridges, and flush them out!" Without question, the Dwarves did as he asked, and then he twisted to look back to Salenth and Rolga, his two heavy weapons operators.

"Get the plasma cannon set up!"

The two Unggoy holstered their small arms and did as ordered. The area of the cavern where they were standing didn't have much in the way of cover, but it did have a slight high ground advantage over the area where the Drow and their troops were trying to hide. Normally, Gazap would prefer to have portable cover shields to use before he did such a thing, but that was out of the question here. Hopefully, though, the Underdark forces would be limited to their crossbows as a means of retaliation, so his troops wouldn't have to worry too much about counter fire.

Salenth and Rolga were fast, having done this maneuver thousands of times. The former set up the tripod and the cannon, while the latter took power cell and hooked it up to the big gun. The weapon hummed to life, and Salenth took his spot on the firing controls. Gazap couldn't see the other Unggoy's face behind the armored NBC helmet he wore, but he knew that there was a tight lipped grin on his face. This was Salenth's job as a soldier, and he took pride where he could.

At the same time, the Dwarves found their first prey. Gazap heard the squeal of goblins and a Dwarven battle chant start up. It was in their native language, so the Sub-Commander didn't fully understand the words, but he caught snippets of things like 'kettle', 'firewood', 'chopping' and a few others. These Dwarves certainly were some of the loudest, least sneaky troops that he had ever encountered in his three and a half decade long career.

Of course, he thought, as he watched a pair of Goblin heads fly up over the first ridge, sans the rest of their bodies, being loud and boisterous had an advantage all its own. To the stealthy Drow, this must have sounded more as if an entire army had just stormed down on top of them, rather than a small task force.

The Goblin forces suddenly gave a great shout, and they stumbled out into the middle of the cavern. The Dwarves held back, knowing what was going to happen next.

Gazap didn't need to give the command, his troops knew what to do. A hail of blue plasma bolts filled the air and thunder shook the cavern as the plasma cannon roared into action. Steam and ash followed as metal, flesh, and leather were all vaporized, filling the cavern with the stench of burned meat. Cheering and shouting promises of death to those who had dared to invade their homes, the Dwarves charged out to the right, up against the far side of the cavern, and ducked behind the next ridge. Gazap decided to do what he could about the ones who had taken shelter on the left side of the cavern. He reached down into his supply belt and drew out a plasma grenade. He primed it and threw it at the nearest ridge. It bounced along the stone, once, twice, and then dropped down into one of the gaps between the ridges, some twenty-five meters away. High-pitched squeals filled the air, and goblins scrambled out, instinctively terrified by the flaming little ball.

Some went out into the center, others to the far side of the cavern. The more desperate tried to scramble up the ridges. The grenade went off, enveloping several and vaporizing them, while ambient heat caught the leather armor that most wore on fire. Those ones leapt around, hooting and hollering as the flames ate away at their bodies.

"Conserve your ammo, only shoot the ones who got away, let those ones burn," Gazap ordered.

The heavy weapons operators did as ordered, and those who had managed to survive the grenade did so only to face the wrath of the cannon. They died quickly, cut down where they stood.

And so it went, for three minutes the Dwarves rushed about down in the center of the cavern, killing the slaves and Drow and driving them from their cover, out into the open where the Unggoy forces swiftly finished them off. However, it was taking longer than Gazap would have liked. There were other areas of this sector that he and the rest of the Hunter Killer team needed to clear. More pressing, though, was that there were more Dark Elves hiding in the rear of the cavern. Thus far, they hadn't emerged, but he knew from the times he'd watched Drizzt practice and battled the Dark Elves in the retaking of the hall that Drow could be murderous close quarter combatants. It was possible they might try to swarm the Dwarves.

Then his radio crackled to life.

"HK-28, Oracle One here, we need you to move forward quickly and reinforce defensive teams Twenty Four and Twenty Seven," Cortana's voice echoed in his ear. "We're detecting a massing of Underdark Forces in their sectors, and we believe the Dark Elves are going to try and make another push for the Undercity."

"HK-28 understands, will comply," Gazap said. He wondered for a moment why the Dark Elves were trying yet another attack, thinking of how many troops they had to have lost in these suicidal frontal assaults. Then he shook his head. He could worry about that when he got to the other teams. For now, he needed to hurry up and finish this group off.

He quickly weighed his options, and decided that it was worth the ammo expenditure.

The Sub-Commander holstered the carbine he carried, and reached up to his back for the massive fuel rod cannon.

"Fire in the hole!" he shouted, with a loud series of battle cries from the Dwarves indicating their understanding.

Gazap stared down the holographic targeting reticule and sighted up the ridges at the back of the cavern, a sight that to the ignorant might have looked almost comical, given that the weapon was larger than he was. Then he squeezed the trigger. The barrel of the massive cannon leapt backwards as a bolt of green death shrieked out of it, heading unerringly towards its target.

The bolt impacted and its concussive force shattered rock and stone, before the plasma super-heated and vaporized it and then those foolish enough to think that the stone would provide protection. The Drow who he targeted never even had time to cry out before they were utterly obliterated. The Unggoy Commander fired repeatedly, until he had expended the magazine of the fuel rod cannon. When he had finished, the cavern was filled with steam, ash, molten and vaporized rock. Fortunately, the Dwarven soldiers had had enchantments placed upon their armor that would shield them from the ambient heat of his assault, and they would be able to press though quickly.

"Break down the plasma cannon and everyone else get ready to move," Gazap said, once he was certain that nothing had survived. It paid to be extra cautious; one never knew if the Drow might have had some unholy artifact or the like.

The Commander and his men were soon on their way to joining their two fellow Hunter Killers. The scenario continued to bother Gazap, though. Why would the enemy attempt to make a push now? Why at that specific area? He pulled up his map of Mithril Hall again, and frowned behind his rebreather. There was no real weakness in the area's defenses, at least when compared with the rest of the Undercity's possible entrances. True, it lacked an autocannon, but there were still plenty of mines and fougases that defended the tunnel leading up to it. The Grunt wondered if his foes might have simply had faulty intelligence, but something told him that this was a different problem. There was something at work here, and it was something that Gazap did not find to his liking.

"Stay alert, be wary in case of ambush," he whispered to the others. "Our enemy may yet have a trump card that they can play."

* * *

Okay, hope that wasn't too terribly bad, and once again, I apologize for the time between updating. Hopefully, this was worth the wait, but if it wasn't, again, you guys have explicit permission to belittle me.

In the meanwhile, I hope you all stay safe, and take care of yourselves out there.


	33. Chapter 32

Hello again, everyone. I know its been a long time since I updated this story, and once again I apologize. A lot has happened over the past four and a half months. I've been working two internships and a part time job, though I have recently been phased out of that last job. I've also had yet another writing project put upon me by a friend (bringing the total up to three running projects right now), which has occupied much of my time. At his pestering, the prologue for it will likely be up in the next week or so, but I worry about the quality of it, as there are more than a few aspects of it that are a bit too similar to Finishing the Fight for my liking. Still, who knows?

Additionally, back in June, a very good friend of mine passed on after a three-year battle with a brain tumor. That put me in a bit of a funk for a while, to put it mildly. To Mason, wherever you are, thank you for the memories and friendship, and for leaving this world a better place than when you found it.

I'm going to be uploading two chapters today, and I hope that this makes up for the length of time between updates. It's the last two chapters of the battle of Mithril Hall, and once they're over and done with, I can at last move this story into its final act.

Hope you enjoy it, and thank you all so much for your time and for being so patient with me.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Two: Hunting the Viper's Head, Part One.**

* * *

Within the ranks of Defensive Team Twenty Four, Neeshka took a deep breath, and prepared herself for the fight of her life. The Drow were coming again and were going to try to assault the Undercity of Mithril Hall one more time. This had forced her team to relocate to try and head off their massing assault. The Tiefling found herself astounded at the sheer tenacity of the foe that they were facing. The sheer number of casualties that the Underdark Army had been able to stomach and tromp through was astounding. At the rate that things were going, the casualties of this battle would literally be measured in the millions. Such a destructive conflict had never before scarred the face of her world, and the Tiefling was at a loss to imagine the impact of such devastation.

Her mind drifted to the holo images she had seen of the battle of New Bismarck. That's what it would look like. She shuddered, and then brought herself back to the present. She could muse on the implications of such death when the battle was over and she was still alive.

"For Ironfist." she heard a voice whisper.

She looked over to her side, and her eyes fell upon Khelgar. Her old friend wore the tabard of a monk of Tyr over his battle armor, and he palmed the haft of his urgosh in his hands. The helmet that he wore hid most of his face, but she could see the stillness in his eyes, the twitching of his hands. Even with his training as a Monk, the Ironfist Dwarf had never quite lost love for Dwarven weaponry and armor. She was reminded of the time, when they had first met, when he had been a wild fighter, always on the lookout for a battle or a brawl. There was something similar about his stance now that vaguely reminded her of what he was like back then.

However, this was not a fight for the sake of a fight. Ironfist and Battle-Hammer went back a long ways, allies almost since the dawn of time. To attack one was to attack the other. To drive one from their home and desecrate the dead… well, something told Neeshka that there would be new tales forged soon in the Underdark, tales of the horror and devastation visited upon the Dark Elves and their allies by the vicious surface Dwarves.

"Motion sensor pings detected. They're going to be on your position in less than a minute." Cortana's voice was calm, and Neeshka steeled herself. "Be advised, as soon as they are able, Gazap and additional teams will be on your position."

Neeshka felt a little bit of relief at that statement. Groups Twenty Four and Twenty Seven did not have heavy weapons or Covenant troops present within them. There simply hadn't been enough to go around. What they did have, though, was a number of UNSC small arms, grenades, a few battleragers and some homemade Dwarven styled surprises for the enemy. They were currently at a chokepoint in the tunnels, fortified with a few fougasses that had been set into the rock in front of them. There were also fortifications set up to channel the Drow and their fodder troops into several narrow areas before they reached the main body of the defenders. In addition to that, there was a pair of sideways mounted catapults on the wall, ready to throw small globs of flaming pitch at them when they arrived.

Between her excellent night vision and the light amplification visor on the UNSC helmet that she was wearing, Neeshka soon saw the first of the enemy ranks. Goblins were in the front, with Orcs further back and Minotaur shock troops spread throughout the ranks. The Drow would be behind them. The Goblin leaders gave cries as they urged their fellows onward. Neeshka drew a MA5K carbine and took aim at those further in the back, remembering what the Master Chief had told her about destroying the chain of command. Those minotaurs needed to die as well.

"Target the heavy troops and the commanders," she muttered over the short-range radio. Her comrades voiced their affirmatives, and bursts of timed fire were quickly flying from the defender's position and into the ranks of the Underdark soldiers.

They kept coming, though, pressing forward like a rising tide.

* * *

Matron Baerne was ill at ease as she sat on her hovering throne. She knew that the assault was not going well. Gromph reported to her not minutes ago that as many as eighty percent or more of the forces dedicated to the surface attack were dead or dying. The only bit of good news that he had been able to deliver was the deaths of one of the Plainsmen kings and of Lady Alustriel. That alone had spared his life, for the old crone knew enough about the surface world to know how often that woman had been a bane to the allies of Lolth.

Worse, though, was the loss of contact that she had had with Matron Hesken. The last communication that she'd had with the other High Priestess had indicated that several teams of assassins had descended upon her position and were overwhelming her bodyguard. Mention had been made of the strange, armored behemoth that had been a thorn in her side ever since she had started trying to get her surface allies together. Matron Baerne clenched her fists tight around the armrests of the black marble of her throne. She knew the golem-like creature was a threat, something that had to be dealt with. The question was how, but uncertainty gripped her heart. For more than two thousand years, she had ruled over Menzoberranzan. Never before had she encountered a being such as this.

Part of her wanted to believe that it was already dealt with, that the Balors of Matron Heskens bodyguard had taken the creature and broken it into so many useless pieces. Wedonnai the Corruptor was among the troops defending her. There were few Balor in existence mightier than that fiend was. Only Errtu and a handful of others could claim to be stronger.

The pragmatic part of her brain told her to dismiss such notions. The creature had thus far shown itself to be greater than anything thrown at it, and had already claimed at least one Balor in this battle, while it seemed capable of wading through Glabrezu as if they were nothing. She had to assume the worse, especially since Matron Hesken knew how perilous her stance was. Any good news she would have been alive to report would have been delivered by now. If the battle for her life still raged, it meant only that neither side was apparently trying to kill each other.

The Matron looked down to the large map that was laid out on a stone block before her. Around her, her four eldest daughters gathered, along with a small army of Demons and Illithids. Still, she was worried. At every turn her forces were defeated, slaughtered, routed, and bested. How could it be? They were the Drow! There were none on the surface of Torril that were deadlier, more skilled with weaponry, or more trained in the arcane arts. They had the blessing of Lolth, an alliance of all the Underdark, while the host of the Abyss poured out to aid them! How, then, did they continue to fall?

A pain lanced through her skull, and she gasped. Her daughters gathered close, while Triel, her eldest, put a hand over her mother's arm. She looked up to her mother with a look of genuine concern and affection.

"It is Lolth," the old Matron whispered.

_Indeed it is!_ The Spider Queen's voice raged in the minds of all moments later, driving many to their knees. _You have failed me, old woman! You promised to deliver the Halls to me, for the furtherance of my glory, but you have been beaten like newly castrated roth!_

_Forgive me, my Queen_, Matron Baerne whispered within her mind, for the first time, feeling just how old her body was. She felt her mind tear in agony before she got any further.

_I do __not__ forgive! I do not forget! You know this, Matron Baenre!_The old woman and everyone else clutched at their skulls. Even Demons began to fall to their knees, clutching at their temples while hellish blood flowed from their eyes and ears. Lolth's wrath was terrible, legendary even among the denizens of the Abyss.

_What must I do?_The Matron gasped within her mind. She felt as though she was caught in a maelstrom, a storm that would be her undoing unless Lolth spared her. In all her two and a half millennia of life, she had never before felt so helpless, so weak. Her hands shook, her teeth chattered as if she was caught in a fearsome cold. Her heart thundered in her chest, threatening to explode or tear its way free of her ribcage.

_Do? You dare to ask of me what you should do?_ Matron Baenre felt the presence of Lolth crushing down upon her. _I should smite you where you stand for your insolence. But I am merciful. You have served me long, old woman, and few have served me better-_

_Our main secondary objective can still be achieved! Our alliance with Demogorgon still secured!_ Triel spoke up, coming to her mother's aid. _Even now, our initial forces are pressing towards it!_

Lolth's fury turned upon the younger Drow, but the High Priestess stood her ground. Slowly, the storm seemed to lessen.

_Initiative. I like that. Do it, then. Secure the key. Once that is done, prepare yourself. A test is coming. Prove yourself worthy of survival, and you will pass._

With that, the presence of the Dark Goddess abated. Matron Baenre felt her strength recovering quickly, and she began to bark out orders and make the necessary mental connections to send commands to the reserve units. She dared not think of what would happen if she were to fail.

She turned towards her daughter. "Go. Lead them personally. We cannot fail."

Triel nodded her head and closed her eyes. There was a crack, and the younger Drow was gone.

* * *

Unknown to Neeshka, Baenre, or to any who were engaged in the increasingly bloody battle for the ancient home of Clan Battle-Hammer, was that their vicious struggle was starting to draw a crowd of sorts. Lolth's rage had been such that its fury had echoed across the planes, washing over the others like a kind of psionic shockwave. Such events were not uncommon these days, as one god or another raged over their current predicament or the trouble encountered trying to get their house back in order following the Time of Troubles. However, there was something different about this one, something that despite their best efforts, they couldn't turn their minds away from.

The first to make note of it was Kelemvor, the newly appointed God of the Dead. His paladins and heralds that inhabited the Fugue Plane, where the City of Judgment lay, were rushing about, and word got back to him on how the entrance to the city was piling up with dead souls awaiting their judgment. First, it had been thousands of souls of all kinds, Orcs, Gray Dwarves, Dark Elves, Goblins, Kobolds, and even a few Dragons. From there, though, the numbers had skyrocketed up until the swarm seemed to be in the millions. His face hidden behind his emotionless mask, the God of the Dead had quickly teleported into his scrying chamber, and sought to find the source of this sudden influx that was causing his followers such distress.

His scrying brought him to the hills and dales just outside of Mithril Hall. What befell his eyes was something that he had never seen before; a slaughter of the likes never before beheld by his eyes either when he had been but a mortal paladin or now as he reigned over all things deceased. He gazed down upon the battle, his mind having trouble comprehending the weapons that spat fire and thunder and cut down everything before them. Even as he watched, he saw a great Dragon, its scales of the purist obsidian, suddenly die, its life snuffed out by a strange flying contraption that roared by seconds later.

"What is this?" he muttered to himself.

It was Torm, Tyr, and Lathander who discovered it next. They felt the rage of Lolth emanating across reality, and sensed the bit of panic and despair mixed in as well. The trinity of Light moved to their own scrying rooms, curious to see what was causing a longtime adversary such distress. They too, saw the battle for the Hall, above and below ground. The three stared on in silence, and as one, appeared before each other. The three looked to each other, unable to believe what they were seeing. How could something like this happen? The thought was on each of their minds as they watched a barrage of tank cannon fire rip one of the few remaining Dark Elf formations apart.

"How can this be?" Torm asked, looking to his two companions. He had spent most of the Troubles with his soul floating through the ethers of the Astral plane, his body destroyed as he tried to make amends for his inability to stop Bane from stealing Ao's tablets by fighting the foul deity.

The battle had ended with both of them dead, and only through Ao's mercy was he brought back. Perhaps his companions had seen something he had not.

"It is unknown to me," Tyr whispered, as he saw without sight, his eyes cut out for his failure in the events that culminated in their downfall. Both looked to Lathander, the only one unscarred by the events of recent times.

"I have no idea. But truly, should we not rejoice at the destruction of the agents of darkness?" he tapped a finger to his chin as he glanced back down at the vision before them. The pool shifted until it revealed a cavern. Standing amongst a small mountain of dead bodies and bits of what probably were once bodies was a towering monster of metal.

"What have we here?" Torm muttered, staring down at the armor clad behemoth, before glancing back up at Lythander. "I have no objections to Lolth's vile children being obliterated, but I question the source, and how it has remained hidden from us. How could we not have seen something of this nature? These weapons… these soldiers… they should be upsetting the very balance of all the Planes. How is that we were blind to all of this?" There was an ominous silence, as they tried to think of any and all who could have hidden such things from them, and who would profit by doing so.

"Worse," Tyr muttered to himself. "What if Lolth's minions are vanquished, only to be replaced by something even worse?"

None had an answer.

Grummsh was the next. He felt the death of all the Orcs slain in battle. It struck at him as if he had been stabbed through the chest, and he remembered all too clearly that Ao had warned that in order to humble the Gods for their crime against Him, they had been forever linked to their followers. As the faith in their deity diminished, so too would that deity's power. Such a massive loss, so quickly, the Orc God fell to his knees as he felt the strength ebbing from his body. He gasped and clutched at his chest, his one eye blinking and trying to focus. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, he knew it. When he was at last able to see what was happening on the Prime, the devastation that was wrought amongst his people, for one of the few times in his eons long life, the God of the Orcs knew terror.

He watched as his people were cut down, blown apart by magic so utterly foreign to him that he did not even understand what it was. None could touch the strange wizards who defended Mithril Hall from his people and the Drow.

"No… No!" he whispered. He tried to search and find a Shaman to power, a warrior to instill faith into and rise to rally his fellows. However, no matter where he searched, he saw naught but death and destruction, and his people throwing themselves fruitlessly at the defenders and their arcane weaponry, choosing death over continued enslavement.

"This cannot be happening!" he roared aloud.

Other gods and goddesses came to view it soon enough. Tempos felt the roar of battle echoing to his kingdom. A smile twitched behind his fearsome helmet as the Lord of Battle felt cries to him for strength and courage. He watched as a battle of a caliber not seen since Faerun's formation was carried out before him. He palmed the haft of his mighty battleaxe as he looked down, grinning impishly as he watched blood be spilled. Curiosity tugged at the God as he watched the strange weaponry, witnessing firsthand what the rifle and the auto-cannon, the mortar and the missile had brought to his domain.

"Yessss…" he hissed softly, his mood like that of a child who had gotten precisely what he had wanted for Christmas. Eagerly, he looked down, focusing on the Barbarians fighting down in the trenches. They had always been a people he had favored. Strong, proud, never afraid to fight. To see them now… oh, they were magnificent.

Then some of the other gods of darkness took notice. Talos, Lord of Storms, felt thunder that was not of his own, and came to watch. Uncertainty filled the evil god in that moment. Everything he knew of war indicated that the paltry force defending Mithril Hall should never have lasted past the first hour of battle, let alone well into the early morning. However, here they were, not only holding the line, but from the looks of things, they were actually winning, driving back the massive host of the Underdark. Dragons, Demons, Dark Elves, and even the dreaded Illithids, feared by most other beings of evil, fell to their might and their strange thunder-spewing weapons.

He felt a presence join him, and looked over to see Shar arriving. The evil twin of Sune, she too seemed unnerved by the events that were unfolding down on the Prime. Her haunting features were marred by a frown, but there was a light in her eyes that Talos recognized, one she got whenever she was scheming, though that in itself was not uncommon.

"Powerful… these strange newcomers have much to offer Faerun," she whispered. "Perhaps, indeed, much to offer us, if only their loyalties could be turned to our direction."

Talos nodded as he understood what she was thinking. Mortals could be so easy to seduce, after all. A few promises of power, the quick and easy way, and they turned to clay in your hand. He smiled and nodded.

"A wise decision. We will have to be careful, though, subtle. Such things are delicate." He frowned at that statement. Subtle was not how he preferred to operate. He preferred the direct method.

Another shock of rage washed over them, and they grinned as they looked at Lolth's predicament. The Spider Goddess was apparently not able to save her people from disaster. As they fell, so too would her power, and her ability to assist her people in their dark schemes. A bloody downward spiral, each sending the other further down the path to death and darkness.

How many might turn to other gods, try their luck with different deities in the hope of someone actually helping them? While they would regret the loss of Lolth from their dark pantheon, there was no dark god that felt they could not make better use of the power that their fellows wielded.

"She always was a crazy bitch," Talos muttered to himself. "Oh well…"

* * *

As for Lolth herself, she ranted and raged within the massive, mobile fortress that served as her base within the Abyss. Countless centuries had been spent planning for this takeover of the surface, for her people to take their place as the true masters of the world. They had just barely avoided disaster when the Time of Troubles had hit, and now this was happening. How could it all be going wrong? How, how, how?

In her ever darkening mood, the dark queen of the Drow felt her thoughts turn to the future. She became painfully aware of how this battle would weaken her. Securing the alliance with Demogorgon was not only a matter of making invasion of the surface easier, now. It was now a matter of survival. Her paranoid mind whirled to and fro as she thought of all her enemies. How many of them might show up to try to take advantage of this? There were none who could challenge her on her own domain, this she knew. However, what would stop Moradin from gathering the Dwarves of the world and throwing them at her cities? What of the Deep Gnomes? The other inhabitants of the Underdark?

What of Helm? Long had the Vigilant One opposed her, and all the rest of the gods of the Dark Pantheon and the denizens of the Abyss. For thousands of years the Watcher had battled it out against her, against Demogorgon, and countless others. He would make a move, or one of his allies, and they would respond accordingly, playing out wars and conflicts across time in a gigantic game of chess. Lolth could not forget the looks she had gotten from the armored God of Guardians as he had cast her and the others down from their high places and forced them to walk as mortals. Like a Shadow Mastiff, he would smell blood, and she knew that he would do something, especially if he learned of her plans. What precisely, she knew not, but she could not shake the image of his Archons and Arch-Angels swooping amongst Menzoberranzan like so many angels of death. She would have to take steps now to secure her bastion of power. Begin marshalling troops and slaves to the city, to where none could hope to successfully assault it, even with a heavenly host.

She opened her mind up to the clerics in the other cities, letting them know what the Will of Lolth was.

* * *

Meanwhile, the object of her thoughts stood in his fortress, and with Moradin at his side, gazed down upon the battle that raged within and around Mithril Hall.

Helm and Moradin looked down from the fortress of the former. The Dwarven God gripped his warhammer so tightly that his knuckles turned white. This was a victory that would be sung about throughout the ages, of the day when the hordes of the Underdark were beaten back, routed utterly and completely. Those who had died defending Mithril Hall, died for their brothers and their sisters, were being avenged a hundred times over. He almost wished he could see the look on Lolth's face as he faintly felt her rage permeate even this mighty fortress.

Helm smiled behind his helmet. He had not chosen wrong when he had brought the crew of the Dawn and their Neo-Covenant allies here. This blow would ring throughout the ages, and shatter forever the myth of Drow invincibility. Just as importantly, the first blocks had been laid. Soon, the time of rebuilding would come. He would yet succeed. He would yet make amends.

He stared up suddenly, wondering if they watched looked down on him. He had searched the planes after his Ascension, searched everywhere for the souls of Dianna, of his children, of his former squadmates. He had never found them, but there was always hope. Might they have found him, perhaps? Could they see what he was doing? The sins he strove to absolve his soul of? He found himself praying that they could, and reflected on the irony for just a moment, of a God pleading to the unknown for a bit of mercy, that powers beyond even a deity's comprehension might smile upon him.

Then he focused back on the battle.

Neeshka growled softly as she expended the last shot in the magazine of her pistol. She reached down for another magazine, and hurriedly loaded it into the weapon. She pulled the slide back, and chambered one of the fifty caliber rounds, just in time to sight up a Drow soldier who had impaled a Dwarf upon her blades. The smile on the Drow's face disintegrated along with most of her head as the explosive bullet impacted and detonated.

"Command, we are being overrun here, the damned freaks are running us out of ammo, we're almost dry," she shouted into her built in boom-mike. "Where are those reinforcements?"

"Gazap's running into resistance. Sensors indicate that additional Underdark forces have broken off to tie him up. I'm attempting to redirect other hunter and defensive teams to your positions, but it's going to take time." Cortana's voice was as calm as ever, and Neeshka growled as she took the head off of another soldier.

"That's time we don't have." she kept the message short and simple as her pistol barked twice more in rapid succession, each shot snuffing out the life of a Dark Elf.

Neeshka felt an instinctive fear rise in her, and she quashed it. She had been closer to death than this before. She and the others would stand and hold, or they would fall. She just determined she would take as many troops with her as she could. The Underdark soldiers had been relentless, charging into the gunfire willingly, even after their slaves had been reduced to shredded bits by grenades or rifle fire, and had utterly ignored how many of their comrades had been blasted apart by fougasses.

She finished off the last magazine for her pistol, and holstered it, drawing her arming and short swords. Khelgar was just in front of her, smashing his fist into an Elf's groin, and then head-butting him as he instinctively hunched over. The Ironfist's helm proved to be the superior one, denting in the Drow's, and Neeshka could hear bones shatter as the dark skinned Elf dropped to the cavern floor.

However, there seemed to be hundreds more behind him, ready to take his place. The two teams were already down to half strength, and it was just a matter of time before the Dark Elves forced themselves through the weakening lines and overran them.

The Tiefling steeled herself as one of them rushed at her. The Dark Elf carried a pair of axes, an unusual fighting style among his kind, she noted. She watched her foe as it rushed in. Someone behind her hurled a flash bang, trying to buy time. Scores of Drow were blinded. Those who were not pressed forward as Neeshka opened up with an attack routine. She brought her arming sword up to stab, aiming just below the breast bone of her foe, while striking out with her shorter blade in a attack aimed at her opponent's right arm, just behind the wrist. Her adversary was fast enough to block the arming sword, but not the second strike, and her blade sliced through the roth-hide bracer and bit deep into the Dark Elf's wrist. Tendons and nerves were severed, and the axe clattered to the ground as the suddenly unresponsive fingers refused to clutch it any longer.

Before she could act upon her advantage, Neeshka was forced to turn and deal with a second Drow rushing past the Dwarves to come at her. This one carried a large, two-handed blade, and she cursed as she ducked out of the range of the attack. Her new opponent had a reach edge over her. She needed to get rid of him first, before he used that pig-sticker to try and gut her. She parried an overhand chop aimed at her shoulder, and dodged to the side to evade the axe wielding Dark Elf, before she ducked down and lashed out with her tail. The prehensile appendage wrapped itself around the wounded Elf's foot and yanked him off his feet. There was a loud crack as his head hit the rock, and Neeshka ripped him towards her. Before the stunned Drow could recover, she plunged her shorter blade into him.

He let out a horrible scream as the enchanted steel tore into his heart and the Tiefling twisted the blade, rending muscle and severing vital blood vessels. Neeshka had little time to celebrate her victory, though. She still had to kill the one with the longsword, and do it before he was able to be joined by any of his compatriots. The Dark Elven soldier roared as he brought his large blade down, again aiming for her shoulder. Neeshka crossed her blades together and caught the descending strike, shoving her weight to the side and forcing the weapon away. There was a split second opening, and she took it. Darting in before the Dark Elf could recover to swing again she struck out with both of her weapons. Her arming sword stabbed through the Drow's chest, while she buried her shorter blade into his side, punching through the chainmail that he wore and deep into his bowels. She tore both weapons out, disemboweling her adversary and slicing his heart and lungs in half.

The Dark Elf tried to bring his weapon back for a final swing, but his body refused to obey his commands, and he fell backwards, his weapon sliding from his hands as he lay dying against the cold rock.

Even as his body lay twitching against the ground, Neeshka watched two more Dwarves go down, covered in dozens of wounds. To her right, Khelgar let out a terrifying roar that would have sent any sane person fleeing from him in terror. The sight of dead kin was driving him into a blood rage, and his Urgosh, already painted red with the blood of his enemies, got another coating as he chopped downward and shattered the helm of an Underdark soldier.

"Die, you miserable, cowardly dogs!" he screamed, hurling himself against the tide. The Drow broke upon him like water upon rock. He impaled one of them upon the spike at the end of his weapon, before tearing it out and bringing the metal capped butt of the weapon up into another Drow's face.

Neeshka was forced to turn her attention back to her own problems as another group of Dark Elves rushed towards her, four in all. She exploded into a flurry of parries and ripostes, feinting and dodging about to avoid their blows. As fast and as skilled as she was, though, she could not block the sheer number of strikes that were coming at her. Her armor, however, was up to the task, and while she was staggered by the blows, she was mostly unharmed.

The Tiefling dropped down to her knees and used her tail to trip another one of the Dark Elves, before she did the unthinkable: she went on the offensive. She would never break through or have a hope of winning if she continued to fight defensively, part of her mind had realized. She would have to hope her armor would continue to hold and she could take the fight to her enemies. Growling to herself, she charged forward. Blows rained in, bouncing off of the pauldrons and chestplate of the ballistic armor. Neeshka let out a battle cry as she swiped her blades back and forth. Her opponents were caught off guard by both the sudden and apparently suicidal charge and the fact that their weapons continued to do nothing, and were open to her attacks. Her arming sword severed the head of one of them while she buried her short sword up to the hilt in the face of another.

The Tiefling leapt backwards out of range of the fourth one, while landing on the first, who was still struggling to his feet after being tripped. Neeshka finished him off, burying her blades into his gut and tearing them upwards, splitting the Dark Elf open from his groin to his throat.

The last of the Dark Elves hesitated, as if she hoped for more of her comrades to come to her aid. Neeshka knew that it would be only seconds before more did join the battle and overwhelmed her, and so she charged once again, spinning her blades around and trying to keep her opponent guessing as to where she was going to strike from. She got lucky, and the Drow female guessed wrong, thinking that she was going high when she came in low from both sides. Her swords cut into the Dark Elf's kneecaps, cutting through flesh and bone and causing the dark skinned elf to scream in agony as she toppled backwards while the rest of her legs fell forwards.

She never had time to complete the scream before Neeshka moved forward and finished her off. The Tiefling took a deep breath and turned to throw herself back into the fight, determined to sell her life as dearly as possible. Something unnerved her though. The Drow had mostly been going for her shoulders or her legs. It was as if they were trying to inflict damage that wouldn't necessarily be lethal. The thought of capture unnerved her, but she had to make her stand. If she retreated, the Dark Elves could spread themselves all throughout the Undercity, and it would make them more difficult to dig out.

She pushed herself forward as she noticed something coming up from the rear: Dark Elf Cavalry. Their lizard mounts were leaping up onto the walls and ceiling, coming at the overwhelmed defenders from multiple vectors. The riders opened up with a hail of crossbow bolts. Many of the projectiles punched through the mithril armor of the Dwarven defenders. Some fell, others staggered and held their ground, hurling axes, daggers, or small hammers at the invaders.

She heard the crackled of magic and the screams of dying defenders and watched as a group of Dwarves were incinerated by a sudden blast of white-hot fire. The Dark Elven ranks were parting around another female, a High Priestess that wore both the regalia of Lolth and the symbol of House Baenre. There were six or so heavily armored infantry troops around her, a bodyguard, Neeshka supposed. The Cleric flicked her left hand and another Dwarf was picked up off of his feet and slammed into the stone walls with enough force to shatter his spine. Neeshka parried a series of furious attacks from another infantry soldier swatting his attacks aside and stomping down as hard as she could upon his foot. She could feel the delicate bones snap and shatter under the force of her blow, and the momentary flinch that the Dark Elf made gave her just enough room to swipe her short sword across his throat and give him a second smile.

Three more fell to the Cleric, and Neeshka knew that the female was a priority target. An Ironfist Dwarf hurled an axe at the Drow, but it clanged off an arcane shield that was wrapped around her body. The High Priestess responded with a hissing word and a gesture, launching a bolt of energy that hit the unfortunate Dwarf with enough power to nearly rip him in half. She growled and gauged the distance between herself and her foe, about forty feet, she could cross that distance in seconds, provided she got through the half dozen or so bodyguards. As she tried desperately to deal with another one of the seemingly endless number of Dark Elves pressing the team's position, Neeshka felt the High Priestess's eyes fall upon her. She rammed both her blades into the Dark Elf she was fighting, severing his major arteries and kicking him off her blades. She glanced up at the other woman, and to her surprise, the Drow was smiling. The woman barked out an order, and the front line of Dark Elves ducked down to their knees as another crossbow volley sung through the air.

Neeshka felt more bolts pinging off her armor, almost like a rain. Some found spots between the gaps in the UNSC composite plating, and she started to stumble. She picked herself up, and gave a shout of defiance, lunging one more time towards one of the kneeling Drow. She couldn't keep a tight enough grip on her blades, and they fell from her grasp. Frantically, she grasped at the throat of the Dark Elf, willing her fingers to clutch around his throat. Her weight bore her foe to the ground, and she forced her stiffening muscles to pull the Dark Elf's head up, before she slammed it against the stone again, and again. She heard the skull crack, felt blood oozing over the gloves she wore. She did not relent, even as the blackness closed in around her and she heard Khelgar crying out into his com unit that they had been overrun.

Her last feeling was collapsing on the cooling corpse of the dead Dark Elf. Her thoughts drifted to John. She hoped he would be proud that she had tried, and that she had gone down fighting.

* * *

"HK-One here, go ahead Oracle," the Master Chief said into his comm.

"Diviners have managed to penetrate through the Drow counter-spells. We've located the command group for the Drow. Matron Baenre and several other high priestesses who appear to be her daughters. Several other matrons appear to be present as well." Cortana's voice had an eagerness to it. The Chief knew why. This was an opportunity here to completely decapitate the entire Dark Elven chain of command, and the majority of Menzoberranzan's ruling council in one go.

Such an event could potentially destabilize what was left of the Dark Elven population, and leave a power vacuum where the survivors would be too busy fighting over the scraps to bother anyone else. Such a powerful gathering, though, would likely be well protected. If what Drizzt had told them about the old crone was correct, she was nearly three thousand years old and had ruled the city for much of that time. In a society that was as prone to betrayal and assassination as the Dark Elves were, she would not have reached that age without being cunning and powerful.

"Orders?" The Spartan asked.

"Link up with HK-35, HK-21, and HK-15 at the following coordinates. Once there, you are to branch out and flank the command group. Strike hard and fast. We need to cut the head off of this viper."

"Understood." The Master Chief said. He looked back over to where Wedonnai's corpse had exploded, and to his surprise, he noticed that the Demon's sword was still present upon the material realm, and relatively undamaged by the massive explosion. As the rest of the teams were regrouping and preparing to head out, he walked over towards it, and hesitantly picked it up. He could feel the magic coursing through the blade, but it didn't seem inherently evil. He frowned, that seemed rather odd. He opened up the rucksack and placed it within it. Cortana and the rest of the group could examine it later. Perhaps by looking at the weapon in detail, they could learn more about what properties the Demons usually endowed their weapons with, and how best to counter them.

He turned and jogged back over to the group, double-checking that all of his drawn weapons were fully stocked on ammo. Once that was done, the group formed up and oriented themselves towards the marker on their HUDs. The Master Chief turned and looked back towards Bruenor as they departed from the cavern. He was taking the leader of Clan Battle-hammer into the mouth of the dragon, as they said. His every instinct screamed that this was wrong, that a person of that kind of rank should be taken away from the battle, not towards the heart. He knew, however, that there was no way he could discourage the Dwarven King. Bruenor was out for blood, as was every Battle-Hammer and Ironfist in the whole mountain right now.

At least he could put Ragnerok to good use, the Spartan thought to himself. Cortana mentioned over the radio of a secondary meeting point for the teams that were further away from the primary rendezvous, and that Cloak-Tower magi would be inbound to teleport them the rest of the way. Good. The arcane firepower could help keep Baenre and her daughters occupied while he and the others ripped through the demonic support troops.

"Designated HK-Teams, heads up, sending visual data now, observe, analyze, and plan your attack. Be wary though, this may be a trap." Keyes said over the radio.

"Roger, awaiting feed," John remarked. Of course there was a chance it was a trap. There always was one. But, the Spartan thought, there was no better trap, no better ambush, than one turned against its maker. He'd look for the signs, and see if there wasn't some way that he could shift the situation to favor him and his teams.

The feed came through a few moments later, and he watched the Dark Elves as they gathered around a large, stone table. He saw the map of the Hall, and understood that they were perhaps still trying to salvage something from the attack as they moved tiny figurines about on it, some of them clearly indicating units that hadn't been wiped out of existence yet.

He noticed, in addition to what seemed to be a few score elite troops, a couple of Mind Flayers skulking about in the darkness, along with several Glabrezu and Bebilliths. No Balors, though. This puzzled the Spartan greatly. If the lesser matron and several other figures had been able to call the beasts to their side or merit their protection, why did the head of the entire assault force not have a few protecting her? Was the Matron so arrogant that she believed herself above the need for such protection? Was she under the belief that she was far enough away from the battle to not need such a defense, or was it a trap? Could there be Balors hiding from the scrying? Or might there be something else, just as nasty, or perhaps more so, that he couldn't see?

The Spartan opted for the last approach. Nothing was ever gained by believing that an opponent was stupid or arrogant. Better to err on overkill, presuming such a concept existed.

His commline crackled to life a moment later. It was Orna.

"She seems too exposed. I do not like this. What if she's luring us in?"

"My thoughts precisely," the Master Chief returned as a map appeared on his HUD, showing him the layout of the cavern in which Baenre was at, along with the approaches. He opened up the external speakers of his suit again. "I want eyes scanning at all times. You hear anything odd, see anything, even _smell_something that feels out of place, I want to know." He turned his attention back to command then. "Oracle, is there any way to tell if the target has an early warning system? Scryers of their own, something like that?"

"Scouting pickets, but there don't appear to be scryers. It's possible that Baenre is using direct mental communications for updates, rather than her own observations." Cortana returned.

"Then she'll know we've decapitated one half of her command chain already. She'll be ready for us." He placed a hand down against his rucksack out of instinct. He still had those two AM grenades in there. Something told him that they were going to get used before this fight was over with. He was concerned though, as they'd never tested the grenades against something as powerful as the ruling Matron of Menzoberranzan.

Was it possible her raw arcane power would be able to overcome the grenade? Or might she have some item on her person to negate such effects? It would be best to be safe, he presumed, and go in hard and fast with the heaviest weapons the teams could bring to bear. He relayed that order to the rest of the troops as they descended ever deeper into the caves and tunnels.

* * *

Jarlaxle panted as he moved through the depths of the tunnels. One by one, small groups of his people were mentally checking in with him, telling him who was and who wasn't alive anymore. The causalities were mounting, and silent frustration was building within the mercenary captain. At the moment, it looked as though fully half of his troops might have been cut down in this ill advised assault. He wondered how many had spilt their blood needlessly in this offensive, and bitterness arose within his soul. For a moment, he didn't care if a Cleric or Wizard somehow managed to find him and read his mind, though they all seemed to be dead anyway so it probably was unlikely.

The mercenary captain shook with rising anger as he plunged deeper into the tunnels, trying to get away from the battle and link up with his troops. He had been with Berg'inyon, and the rest of the survivors from his initial group when the order had arrived to form up with some of the reserves and march on a specific area of the Undercity. Jarlaxle had made a decision then. At any other time, he would have questioned his judgment, thought himself insane, but not this time. He would not see his troops who were so loyal to him, such a rare, precious thing in his world, die in vain for the glory of Lolth anymore.

He had slipped away unnoticed by the rest of the weary Dark Elves, and brought his whistle to his lips. He played a tune, calling for a full retreat. The magic instrument would carry to the ears of all loyal to him, and they would meet up elsewhere. They were bugging out of this mess.

Let the others die for the glory of the Spider Queen, he thought. This was a battle that could not be won.

* * *

The Master Chief and his comrades were halfway to the staging area of their assault when the message reached them.

"We've been overrun!" he heard Khelgar's voice shout over the command channel.

He didn't stop moving forward. The other two teams were more than two and a half klicks away from where they were, and there was no chance for them to possibly arrive in time to make a difference. He'd have to hope Gazap and his squad would be able to pull Neeshka, Khelgar, and the others out of the fire. The mission had to go on, or else more would meet that fate. If not this day, then another when the Drow regrouped and came after the Hall again. Neeshka understood that. She saw the big picture. Knew what was at stake here, and how it was bigger than any one person or individual.

Images floated through his mind as he moved further down the tunnel. He saw Sam, James, Grace, and all the rest of his brothers and sisters who had given their lives for the sake of the Human race. For every one of them that had died, thousands, maybe millions, had been saved. He had to believe that the sacrifice of another member of his family in this battle would make just as big of a difference in the long run. That cold reasoning though, did not lessen his desire to go to her aid.

* * *

"Faster, our allies die while we lag!" Gazap's voice was scathing as he pushed his team further and further up the tunnels, heading to where the defenders were being swamped. He had heard the message of them being overrun as well. It was not yet too late, though. They could still arrive in time to save some of them.

The Unggoy sub-commander had his plasma carbine out in front of him, the weapon braced against his shoulder as he charged forward, a fresh pack slapped into it after he had expended most of the last charge mowing down another company of Underdark forces.

"Be advised, hostiles ahead." Cortana's voice was laced with an edge, and Gazap felt that there was both concern and a quiet rage to the voice. Still, he focused on the task at hand, and prepared his troops.

"Acknowledged," Gazap returned. Adrenaline began to spike in the Unggoy's body, but he kept himself calm and controlled regardless. A rookie would have wanted to rush in, guns blazing and drive the Drow off. Veterans were wise enough to know that there were old soldiers and bold soldiers, but no old, bold soldiers. They needed to be swift, but not reckless.

To his surprise, though, the Drow and a small number of fodder troops actually charged them.

"Cover!" he barked as he heard them swarming up the tunnel. The tunnel they were in was smooth for the most part, but there were a few rocks that they could use. His troops immediately set themselves up behind it, the Unggoy closer to the sides of the cave, the Dwarves more to the middle, where they could leap out and act as melee blockers if the need arose.

As the first Orcs rounded the bend in the cave, Gazap and his fellows opened fire. Bursts of plasma fire made the air stink of ozone, while the light created an almost strobe-light effect to any who would have seen the battle in the normal light spectrum. The first few waves died almost instantly, mowed down like wheat. Some were dead before they hit the ground, others lived long enough to flail about as the plasma's proximity heat ignited the leather straps and wood of their shields and equipment, while the ordinary steel of their mail twisted and melted before the fury of the Grunts' assault.

Gazap had lost track of how many he killed in the past few hours, but as he sighted up an Orc commander and blew his head off, he wondered for a split-second if this was what it felt like to be a Spartan. To be an Angel of Death. Ferocious. Feared. Absolutely lethal.

"Grenade out!" one of his troops shouted as the Drow themselves came into range. A plasma grenade, and then a second one, were hurled into the ranks of the Dark Elves.

There were shouts and screams at the harshness of the light, and then the cavern shook with the power of the twin detonations. Raw heat filled the tunnel, and the temperature rose like an oven for a few moments. Gazap felt himself start to sweat, despite the coolant of his gear and the near-liquid temperature of the methane that he was inhaling. Still, the grenades had done their lethal work. Fully half of the Dark Elves were dead or dying.

"Do not relent! Let them know that to stand against us is to die!" He ordered his troops as he fired a three shot burst at a Dark Elven officer. The shots ripped through her adamantine armor and blew her chest open, cremating her heart and lungs.

However, as he went to sight up another target, he heard a pop behind him. Knowing this meant a teleporter, he turned and got a firsthand glimpse at a Mind Flayer. It hit him with a psychic attack moments later as a full six of the betentacled monsters popped in behind it. The Unggoy sub commander stumbled, dropping his carbine as one strike became many, four of the psionic blows washing over him simultaneously. It was like being hit point blank by a stun grenade, the Grunt thought to himself.

He distantly heard shouting and screaming, and dazed, looked over to see his Dwarven soldiers. Heedless of the danger of closing into melee combat against Illithids, they threw themselves at the creatures, brandishing their weapons. Not all of his soldiers had been hit, but he knew that they'd have been overrun if so many of the attackers weren't already dead. As it was, two of his Unggoy troops were cut down by a barrage of magical spells and three more were stunned and disoriented before the charging Dwarves came to their rescue.

The first Mind Flayer to appear closed in on Gazap, spreading its tentacles wide and baring its mouth. The sub-commander knew what it planned to do, and that he had to stop it. He willed himself to reach for his sidearm as the thing bent down over him, its horrific beak clacking several times, a line of drool coming off it as the creature anticipated feasting on Gazap's brain. He felt his armored hand clasp around the cool, familiar composite of the pistol grip, and snarled as he drew it. Thinking only to keep that beak away from his head, the Unggoy Sub-Commander thrust his pistol into it. The Illithid gave a squawk of surprise right before Gazap pulled the trigger, and blasted the Mind Flayer's oversized brain out of the back of its head.

The Grunt staggered up to his feet, holstering the pistol and reaching for his fallen carbine. He growled softly behind his rebreather, seeing another one of the tentacled freaks moving for Rolga, who was firing his carbine on full auto in order to suppress the enemy Dark Elves. One of the Dwarves, Pestle, if he remembered his name right, beat the sub-commander to the punch. The Battle-Hammer Dwarf rushed in, shouting at the top of his lungs while swinging a large two handed axe. The weapon caught the Illithid dead on, cleaving through the robes the creature wore, and both of its legs. The creature howled and fell backwards, black ichor spewing everywhere.

Pestle was quick to move in and finish the fiend off, separating its head from its shoulders and letting out a howl at his victory.

Moving as quickly as he could, his mind still somewhat addled by the initial attack, Gazap look around and spotted another Illithid that had downed the Dwarf attacking it, and was now looking to make a meal out of its brain. The Grunt was swift to give it a permanent lesson on why trying to snack in the middle of a firefight was a bad idea. A double tap blew out most of its chest and guts, leaving it to topple backwards with its torso smoking.

The three remaining Mind Flayers were then buried under an avalanche of rampaging Dwarves that hacked them apart with axes, urgoshes, and spiked gauntlets. Gazap nodded to himself and shook his head, trying to clear away the last of the stars that were dancing in front of his vision.

"Focus fire back on the Drow!"

His troops did as commanded, and there was soon a plethora of plasma fire being flung at the ever weakening Dark Elf forces. Still, as fast as they were dropping, Gazap still felt that this was taking far too long for his liking. He reached down to his supply webbing and pulled out a flash-bang. He primed the device, and hurled it at the ranks of the Underdark forces.

"Down!" he shouted. His Dwarven allies dropped down, shutting their eyes and plugging their ears as best they could. The infrared visor that Gazap was wearing adjusted as necessary for the device, but to the Drow, it was like a small sun had just been dropped into their world. They fell back, howling and clutching at their eyes and ears.

Those not rendered blind and deaf took a look around them at their depleted numbers, and their morale shattered. They tried to flee, but all they did was expose their backs. The Grunts cut them down without mercy.

"Move, move!" Gazap ordered. He wanted to congratulate his troops on their fine performance, but that could wait until DT-24 and 27 had been seen to.

"Twenty Eight, Oracle, enemy forces are withdrawing from the area. Full scale retreat across the board." Cortana's voice informed them.

"Roger," Gazap said.

With their path unimpeded, it took them just a couple more minutes to close to where the other two teams were. It was a mess. Dwarven bodies lay everywhere, intermixed with the corpses of goblinoids, Orcs, Minotaur, and at least a hundred Drow.

"Survivor!" someone shouted.

The rest of the team took up defensive position, Rolga and Salenth hurriedly setting up the plasma cannon for good measure. Good initiative, Gazap thought, as he hurried over towards where the survivor was.

"Damned black skinned rats," the Dwarf coughed, spitting up some blood. Gazap cocked his head, and then realized that he was staring at Khelgar.

The Dwarven monk was a mess, and were it not for the voice, Gazap was certain he would have never recognized him. The Ironfist soldier was missing an arm, and his left leg was attached by only the slimmest bits of muscle and tendons. He sported a half dozen other wounds, and countless dents and nicks to his armor.

"Medpack!" Gazap shouted. One was handed to him, and he started to apply biofoam to all the wounds. "Oracle, HK-28 here. We have a survivor. Khelgar of Clan Ironfist. His wounds are grave. We need a medivac now!"

"Roger that," Cortana responded. "All Mages are currently engaged. As soon as one opens up, we'll get him out of there. In the meantime, I need you to stabilize him as best you can, and hold that position."

"Will comply," the Grunt leader said as he covered the stump of Khelgar's right arm with biofoam. "Enemy status?"

"Still in full retreat. No sign of them turning around."

Gazap frowned behind his rebreather. Why would the Drow launch such a massive assault, and then just universally turn and, as the Humans said, 'haul ass?' Especially since they had successfully overwhelmed the defenders here?

"I don't like this," he muttered. "Something is up."

However, as he waited, no surprise teleports, rushes, or other type of sneak attacks came. They were left alone as they tended to Khelgar, and were left to wonder what in the world their enemy had been up to. He kept staring around, his instincts telling him that something was missing, something that should be here. Then it hit him: Neeshka. She had been part of this group as well. So why were there only Dwarven corpses here?


	34. Chapter 33

**Chapter Thirty-Three: Hunting the Viper's Head, Part Two  
**

* * *

Matron Baenre tapped a finger against her throne. Lolth's message still echoed direly within her head. The Spider Queen was not one to readily accept failure, and especially not one of this magnitude. Gromph had reported that all attempts to breach Mithril Hall from the surface had ended with his troops being slaughtered. Worse still, the surface dwellers strange opening counter-assault had sealed up the caves from which his forces had emerged, and there was no way back into the Underdark. She had finally sent orders for the Drow troops to disengage and attempt to flee, while using the slaves to cover their retreat. The old Matron only hoped that they would be able to find some other cave to slip back into. Dawn could not be more than a couple of hours off. The leader of Menzoberranzan knew that when that hellish, flaming ball rose up in the sky, that it would scorch her people like a blight. It would burn their eyes and blind them, its heat would assault their skin and leave them helpless to any counter action, while its light would steal the magic from their weapons and their armor.

The ancient Dark Elf closed her eyes and bowed her head. She would have to assume them lost unless things changed. The assault on the cavern complex had been just as disastrous. Virtually no primary, secondary, or even tertiary objectives had been achieved, and all they had succeeded in doing was boosting the morale of the surface dwellers by utterly shattering the long cultivated belief that her people had no equals in combat. Still, at least one of their objectives had successfully been accomplished, and she took comfort in that. They might yet secure the forces they would need to take this location again. She smiled wickedly at the thought of an army of demons marching at the Dwarves and their strange allies. The thought that they could stand against the full might of Demogorgon was laughable. The Prince of Demons had power that mortals could not hope to comprehend.

She felt the presence of Lolth touch her mind again. Her Goddess seemed to have calmed since the last encounter, though Matron Baenre still detected a hint of frustration an anxiety within the Spider Queen.

_It is done._The Matron thought.

_This I know. You have earned a minor reprieve from my wrath. Deliver the key safely back to Menzoberranzan, and prepare to marshal my forces. With the Demons allied with us as never before, we will take what is ours._Lolth said.

The Matron bowed her head as she sat within her throne. She was uncertain as to what the test Lolth had referred to earlier was. Perhaps this was it? She wasn't certain what, but she vowed that she would pass it. She had not fought her way to the top of the pile in her home and ruled it for two thousand years to die like some whelp fresh out of the academy.

"Prepare to move," she whispered to her daughters. "We have done all we can hope to accomplish here."

* * *

The Dark Elf stared around as she looked up the tunnel. There were two more of House Baenre's elite soldiers standing next to her, ready to fight any attackers who managed to get this far, and hold them off long enough for their leaders to receive warning and prepare themselves accordingly.

The Drow saw a quick flash of heat twenty yards ahead, right where there was a bend in the tunnel, and heard a muffled coughing sound. One of her comrades crumpled to the ground. Unsure what had caused it, but knowing that they were under attack by something, the woman turned to her other comrade, and watched as her head disintegrated into a mess of blood and bone. She barely had time for the gasp of surprise to leave her lungs before she felt a massive pain in her temple. Then all went dark.

The Master Chief signaled the fall of the sentries to those behind him. Those with vision enhancements had switched to light amplification rather than thermal at the moment, due to the thermal cloaking capabilities of his armor, and they acknowledged his actions with sharp gestures of their own.

The waypoint system on his HUD indicated that they were less than four hundred meters from the target. The Spartan kept his silenced SMG out with one hand, while the other one reached down into his rucksack, and withdrew the Spartan laser that he had put in it. The device had a full cell primed and ready. He had also withdraw the AM grenades and hung them in the bandolier that he was wearing. With luck, the result would be a significant one-two punch that would render Matron Baenre little more than ash and super-heated water before anyone could so much as figure out what was going on.

The Spartan exhaled as they drew closer and closer. There were no other sentries in this tunnel, and the other teams were reporting in that they'd managed to eliminate the posts they'd encountered without incident. The cavern that they would be entering was a larger one, about the size of a sports arena. Matron Baenre, her daughters, and the other Matrons were all gathered in the central area, flanked and surrounded by their supporters and bodyguards from four of the major Houses. Baenre's troops were there, along with large elements of House Del'Armgo, Xorlarrin, and Faen Tlabbar.

The plan called for him to initiate hard contact, lob the grenade, and fire his shot. Bidderdo would then cast a haste spell upon him. The other HK teams would follow similar protocols and they would attack as one from three different angles. The enhanced speed would let him and the other teams move in with other heavy weapons and quickly eliminate the demons and other Drow while they were still reeling from the effects of the grenades and the death of their leader. However, no plan survived contact with the enemy. If that didn't work, the idea was to concentrate all available fire on the priestesses before they could summon reinforcements, enhance the other troops, or make a getaway.

The Master Chief soon arrived at the final bend that would open out into the cavern, and he holstered the SMG, fishing out a tiny fiber optic. Linking it up with his suit, he got a good look at the enemy, before he switched back over to infrared viewing. He winked his HUD light, letting the rest of the teams know that they would be engaging the enemy within seconds, and to wait for him. He counted down.

Three. He reached up and primed one of the anti-magic grenades, holding it close as he quickly reviewed where everyone was.

Two. He started charging the laser.

One. The cyborg leaned around the corner and hurled the grenade, while bringing the nearly primed heavy weapon down onto his shoulder, and leveling it straight at the Matron. As soon as he did, her head snapped up and her eyes widened. She never spoke, never gestured. She was simply gone.

"Shit!" he hissed.

Spartan Time in full effect, the Master Chief frantically searched around for the target, trying to reacquire her. He was unsuccessful, and he knew that he needed to fire the laser. He opted for secondary targets as the AM grenade bounced and rolled along the floor of the cavern. One of Baerne's daughters was standing just outside of the grenade's range. Next to her was another Matron, and behind them was a large cluster of melee troops and Glabrezu.

The grenade detonated, and a series of flashes washed over everyone caught in range. The Spartan could see their facial expressions slowly changing from confusion to horror as they realized they were defenseless. Then the Spartan laser gave a high-pitched whine and kicked backwards as it fired a crimson lance of death unerringly towards the Master Chief's targets. The beam struck Baenre's daughter, while the raw heat of an energy pulse hot enough to slice through four meters of Covenant tank armor washed over the other Matron. Their arcane defenses held for but microseconds. They never had a chance and in the blink of an eye both Quenthel Baenre and Vadalma Tlabbar of the Third House were utterly obliterated.

The energy blast continued onwards, cutting down four Glabrezu and searing a number of Baenre and House Del'Armgo troops as it connected with the wall on the far side of the cavern. The Master Chief wasted no time; he took the massive laser cannon down from his shoulder and stuffed it into his rucksack. It took too long to charge to be of any further use in a battle like this. He unslung his ASG-60 and primed a flash-bang, hurling it at a concentration of troops at the eastern end of the cavern.

At the same time, hails of fifty caliber DU rounds and plasma fire emerged from the other tunnels, creating a horrific crossfire that reduced several Clerics to shreds. The Master Chief took aim at another one of the Matrons caught in the blast of the AM grenade. He was uncertain how long it would last against targets like them, and he needed to make it count.

"All teams, focus on the vulnerable targets!" he shouted as he opened fire. Matron Xorlarrin of the Seventh house and her eldest daughter died in the next instant, as uranium flechettes perforated their bodies.

He watched in slow motion as nearly a half score Matrons and High Priestesses were cut down where they stood. The three remaining Baenre daughters, however, were more fortunate. They vanished in the blink of an eye, reappearing at different areas of the cavern. They were swift to seek cover behind their demonic allies as the elite shock troops rushed forward to do battle. He heard Bidderdo Harpell chanting behind him as a number of Baenre and Del'Armgo troops threw small spheres onto the floor of the cavern. They exploded moments later in flashes of light, and he heard several of the Dwarves cry out in pain. Flash grenades of some sort.

Well, he'd raise them one better.

"Flash-Bangs!" he commanded the troops. Several went through the air, and the Dark Elven troops and Demons all dove behind whatever rocks they could. The Spartan nodded to himself as he moved forward. Matron Baenre must have become aware of the flash-bangs, or at least understood that the Dwarves and their allies had the ability to render troops blind and deaf.

There was still no sign of the Matron herself though, and that had the Master Chief worried. If the woman had gotten away, there was a chance that she could rally the forces of the Underdark and march again.

Haste Spells were falling on the troops on both sides, as Surface magi and surviving House Wizards attempted to bolster their troops. The Master Chief fought the urge to order the handful of AM grenades that were left among the teams to remove those enhancements from their foes. Matron Baenre. She was the key to this; they needed to be saved for her.

Behind him, Thibbledorf Pwent let out a mighty battle cry, and the gutbusters rushed right for the largest concentration of troops that could be seen. The Spartan saw the bodies of Dark Elven troops reforming into battle lines, putting themselves between their leaders and themselves. However, he noticed that the lines were distinctly separate. House Baenre formed one line of defense, House Del'Armgo a second, and the other houses into theirs. He counted close to four hundred troops. He had maybe an eighth of that number.

"Focus on Baenre!" he shouted as he saw purplish flames leaping up over several of the troops, himself included. Faerie Fire, a minor arcane trick, something all Drow could do.

The substance was harmless, though it often had a devastating shock-effect on the unprepared, who would hurl themselves to the ground and try to put out the flames. The primary effect of the magic, however, was to illuminate him and make him a target for archer fire, according to Drizzt. It would also effectively negate his thermal camouflage. He heard the sounds of heavy crossbow fire, and turned to see a ridge about fifty meters off. A grouping of archers were lying prone there, firing down from the high ground. He saw one of the bolts hit a charging Gutbuster. The bolt exploded a moment after impact, with the fury of a small grenade, tearing the Battle-Hammer warrior open and killing him instantly.

"Johnson!" the Spartan barked as he saw several of the bolts moving towards him. Hyper-enhanced muscle and the Mjolnir armor worked together to propel the cyborg out of the path, but he could see more bolts coming at him. They struck the ground and exploded in balls of fire and lightning, forcing the Spartan to sprint for the cover of a nearby stalagmite. They had identified him. They knew what he was. They wanted him dead.

"On it," the ODST growled back. John saw him produce a flamethrower, and he and two of the Elites within his team sent arcs of pressurized thermite streaking towards the archers.

The roar of the flames did nothing to drown out their screams as the flamethrowers cremated the archers and turned the rocks they were hiding on into pools of molten lava.

With those distractions removed, the Spartan concerned himself with first locating Matron Baenre, killing her and the other High Priestesses, and then destroying the rest of the army group here. He would have to be weary though. He hadn't missed that Baenre's daughters had apparently been able to overpower the effects of the AM grenades. Doubtless, Baenre herself would be able to take it as well, though it would hopefully weaken her.

He saw movement in the upper tier of the cavern, up by the stalactites. He leveled his weapon and opened fire. Arcane shields flared to life as the Matron teleported again, but not before hurling a blast of fire and lightning from her hands.

"Eyes open, target extremely mobile!" he shouted over the command channel, and hurled a fragmentation grenade at a cluster of Del'Armgo troops. Behind him, the spells that Matron Baenre had unleashed impacted and detonated.

A trio of Gutbusters died in the fury of the blasts as the shockwaves buffeted the Spartan, and he noticed the heat in the cavern rise considerably. His grenade went off as he sought to reacquire the target, joining hundreds of other sounds of battle. Spells, bullets, plasma fire, battle cries and roars of pain from the wounded and the dying, all filled the Master Chief's audio receptors.

A sudden pain seized his body, and he knew it was Matron Baenre, followed by what felt like a battering ram slamming into his mind. He staggered and shook his head, grunting as he did so. Pain was an old friend. He willed himself to ignore the agony and looked about. He spottedher again, nearly a hundred meters away, floating near the ceiling of the cavern.

"Target, mark-two-six-five high!" he unloaded a barrage of fire from his ASG, which was joined by fifty caliber and plasma rifle fire moments later. Arcane shields were shattered and destroyed, but there always seemed to be more.

Baenre vanished again, while his EM sensors spiked. Something was being summoned. Moments later a half dozen Yochols filled the cavern along with more Demons. The other Clerics and Baenre's daughters also reentered the battle. Spells washed over the Dark Elves and their allies. Glistening protective fields covered their bodies, and he noticed that several of them grew in size and stature. Others chose a more direct approach. A column of fire leapt up around Johnson's group, and there was a host of Sangheili and Human curses as the troops emerged from the flames and returned fire.

Two more of Pwent's Gutbusters dropped dead. One of them impaled by a monster of a Dark Elf that stood taller than most Humans and was armed with a wicked looking trident, another one struck down by dark magic. Six casualties so far, the Master Chief counted. The cyborg growled and resumed his hunt for Baenre, skittering from point of cover to point of cover under his haste spell, relieved when the Faerie Fire finally died down and left him free to hunt in shadow once more.

Something battered at his mind again, and he knew that it was Matron Baenre. The old woman wanted to get inside his head. The Master Chief growled as he spotted her once more and unloaded the rest of his ASG-60's magazine at the woman. More of her defenses broke, and he was beginning to reach the conclusion that she had artifacts similar to the ones that Wedonnai had had. It would also explain the elemental magic. That tended to be the domain of Wizards more than Clerics, from what he understood.

The initial plan was quite dead, it seemed. Now it was a matter of seeing who was better at adaptation to changing battle tactics. The Hunter Killers were already taking the initiative. Johnson and his squad of flame-troops were acting like shock troopers, running around and blinding the Dark Elves with their weaponry, while at the same time wreaking psychological havoc. The Dark Elves feared fire more than most, especially fire that could turn their enchanted armor against them.

The Clerics and Wizards attempted to compensate for this, and John saw them raising elemental wards. Most, however, were unsuccessful. Either they never finished the spells and were incinerated when Johnson and his team-mates arced the fire of their weapons and sent them crashing down on the spell-casters, where the four thousand degree flames quickly cremated them, or the erected wards lasted only moments against flames far more intense than they were ever designed to protect against.

Another Dwarf was devoured alive by a Yochol, before a barrage of plasma fire turned the Handmaidens into steaming wrecks. Not to be deterred, more were summoned, and the Glabrezu joined the battle.

"Bruenor, pull your men back!" the Master Chief snarled as he evaded more elemental magic from Baenre, before another psychic blast tore at his body. He fought of the pain that screamed through him, and took aim, his automatic shotgun now loaded with explosive ammunition. "Heavy weapons, alternate targets. Ballistics on out the Dark Elves and Demons, plasma fire on the Yochols!"

There was a sound like cracking glass as he fired a six round burst at Baenre. The woman fell to the ground, but despite the thirty-meter drop, seemed to be fine. Her defenses were still holding. She locked eyes on the cyborg once again, and with a scream waved her right arm. The Master Chief felt an unseen force grip him, and the next thing he knew he was airborne. He sailed through the air, smashed through a stone pillar in the middle of the cavern, and landed amongst the Dark Elven forces. Two of the Drow were crushed when his half-ton body landed on them, but the Spartan took no comfort in that fact. His shields were still solid, but this was about the last place he wanted to be, considering he was surrounded by an army of Drow, Demons, and spell casters who were all out for his blood.

Thankful that the haste spell was still in full effect, the Spartan rolled up into a crouch, quickly primed two grenades as troops of Del'Armgo and Baenre closed in upon him. The two grenades sailed in opposite directions as he called out a status update to the other teams, letting them know of his location and for all those not immediately engaged to keep the pressure up on Matron Baenre. She appeared to have teleported away again. Could it be that her defenses were like his? That they recharged when not under assault, and that was why she kept moving around so much?

The back of his head throbbed, and he grit his teeth, nearly staggering at another pulse of raw pain. That was really getting on his nerves. His two grenades detonated, and tore massive holes in the melee troops' lines. Still, they were pressing in around him, and if he didn't do something quickly, they were going to swarm him. He dipped and weaved and twisted as he fired, but the sheer number of attacks ensured that some got through. Enchanted blades struck against his shields and magic-tipped bolts exploded as they struck him. He needed massive volumes of fire to clear a path out of this mess and into the hunt again.

"Johnson, Orna, I need a grenade volley on my position!" he growled as he reached down and grabbed the SMG off of his left hip, holding a weapon with each hand. What he was about to do went against most logic and traditional rules of engagement, but at this range, the sacrifice of accuracy was irrelevant. The enemy was in close. He couldn't have missed if he tried.

His two comrades in arms were swift to answer his call for assistance, and did not question his order in the slightest. Trust, a concept so alien to their foes that the Drow had no true word for it, caused them to believe that their friend knew what he was doing. On command, a rain of nearly a dozen explosive-thermite grenades impacted around the Spartan and the Drow throngs pressing in upon him. White-hot flames leapt up everywhere, burning through everyone and everything caught in the blast radius. The Master Chief emerged from the firestorm like a Devil arising from the Hells, flames streaming off of his shields. He leveled both of his weapons out at his sides, unleashing an onslaught of fire, while looking around for priority targets. He spotted one, a wizard, and focused his SMG on the Dark Elf, quickly overwhelming his defenses and destroying the man utterly.

"Another volley!" he called out as he expended the last of his SMG's ammunition, and hurled the weapon at a Dark Elven Cleric, throwing the girl off her spellcasting as it connected with her face.

* * *

The number of Gods and Goddesses watching the unfolding battle continued to grow, even as the battle itself was dying off, more and more were becoming aware of it, notifying others, and so on, until entire pantheons had begun to watch the strange struggle.

Mielikki and Chauntea watched it together. The Goddesses of nature and agriculture watched the world beneath them become soaked in blood, the soil and rock turning red, green, and black as the life's blood of so many countless thousands soaked down into it. Mielikki felt the agony of one soul in particular and focused things down onto Drizzt. The rogue Dark Elf had often held a special place in her heart. There was a kind soul, so different from his dark kin, tucked away under that armor that he wore over both flesh and spirit. She felt his pain as she saw him rush towards a group of his evil brothers and sisters.

But the pain went deeper than this apparent situation where he was once more forced to kill his kindred. There was something else here, something more. Then she saw the weapon on his hip. She recognized it, she had seen several of the surface combatants using such devices, and she knew what it was capable of. She had long known of her follower's bane and abhorrence of such technological killing devices. Had something happened that had forced him to use the weapon? She could scarcely imagine what that might do to him. A quiet raged filled her then, and her eyes narrowed, a fire lighting up inside of them. In an instant, she was gone from Chauntea's side, going to the one person that she simply knew had to be behind this. There was only one being that could possibly have given the surface worlders such devices.

She appeared in his fortress moments later. He was hunched over a scrying bowl many times larger than his diminutive body. Gond, Lord of All Smiths, God of creation and invention. He was in his gnomish form, and seemed to be hastily scribbling away on a massive notepad, constantly fiddling with a set of what appeared at first glance to be jewel-cutter's lenses set atop his head.

"Gond!" she called to him.

The Crafter of Knowledge gave a slight shriek, jumped a full twenty feet into the air, and landed without turning around and seemingly without missing a beat in his scribbling.

"Yes? You bellowed, Mielikki? What is it? What is it? I'm busy here!" he shouted back to her, scrambling around the sides of his scrying bowl, flicking different lenses down over his eyes so quickly that the nature Goddess could scarcely keep up with him.

"You know why," she narrowed her gaze again, storming up towards him as he continued to half-listen to her, constantly muttering under his breath about different aspects of the bloody combat taking place before him. "There are none on the Celestial Planes who are not now aware of your meddling, and I suspect only their enthrallment at the battle keeps them from storming your home." her voice was quiet, dangerous.

Gond didn't even bother to look up, though he actually paused for about half a second, before hastily scribbling notes down again. "Milady Mielikki, am I given to understand that you think that _I_am responsible for the events unfolding here?"

"Your domain is that of invention, including that of war, and your followers have often created projectile weapons that shoot smoke and fire." she clenched a fist as she thought of such past instances, and how badly they had nearly upset the order of things.

"Those… _things_… were but crude implements compared to these magnificent devices!" he exclaimed as he quickly flicked through a different series of viewing lenses once again. "I only wish I had thought of such things before! Look at them, Milady, look at how they change the outcome, from massacre to victory. Ohhh, and that armor, those siege engines! I cannot believe that we have been graced to view such magnificent things!"

Mielikki was tempted to slap a hand to her forehead. The Lord of All Smiths was acting just as he always had. It appeared that his time spent as a mortal had been wasted on him. Always creating, always envisioning without ever thinking of the consequences. But, much as she wanted to wring the Gnome's little neck right now, she was left with another question. If Gond was not the one who was responsible for crafting these devices, then who was? Who had unleashed these troops? These weapons?

There was one who might know. One who watched and saw what others didn't.

She left in an instant, while Gond continued to mutter and take notes. Moments later, she appeared at another fortress. Archons whirled as she teleported in, while the souls of Paladins and warriors long dead drew weapons. However, they stopped upon realizing who she was. They sheathed their weapons and retreated back to their guard posts. Mielikki arched an eyebrow as she pondered their actions, and realized that her coming must have been foreseen.

She made her way towards where she knew the scrying chambers were. Once many Gods of the Good and Neutral pantheons had come to this place, to see and ask of the deity blessed with the power of foresight. None had come here since the Troubles ended. Everyone knew how Helm had cut Mystra down, everyone had seen her corpse, unmoved from where it had fallen at the base of the Celestial Staircase.

Deities slaying each other was nothing new, but that didn't make it any less unnerving, to know that she was entering the company of someone who had killed one of their own.

She came to the door, and pushed against it. It opened, and she gasped as she entered the room. Helm was not alone. There was another that had dared to come here. Moradin looked up from the scrying chamber and blinked at her in surprise. Helm kept his back to her, his arms spread over the lips of the massive scrying bowl. The Watcher, and the Dwarven God, watching the battle together? The two had long been friends, this she knew, but she would have expected Torm, Tyr, Lathander, one of Helm's other allies, rather than Moradin. Things were beginning to fall into place. Pieces to a puzzle seemed to be coming together.

"Ask your questions, Mielikki. For I have much work to do," Helm said. His voice was neutral, devoid of emotion, and he did not move from where he was.

"Helm… what have you done?" she whispered.

"What makes you think that I've done anything?" A hand came up, and she heard the telltale clanking of a gauntlet tapping against a visor.

"Mithril Hall comes under assault, attacked by what seems to be the whole host of the Underdark," she paused, gauging his reaction. Nothing. "But rather than being completely overrun and destroyed, the Dwarves are holding their own. They're driving back their would-be enslavers. And they're doing it with weapons that not even Gond apparently had the forethought to forge."

"Yes, a most curious turn of events," Helm said. Still, his back remained to her. Mielikki took a few steps forward, her hair fluttering out behind her.

"And here I find Moradin, consulting with you and watching over the triumph of his people, you with the gift of Foresight."

"Many Gods have such gifts," Helm shrugged.

"But none so great as yours!" Mielikki countered. There was anger in her voice. "And what's more. You were the one with the time to plan this, to have these strange extra-planar soldiers rush around while everyone else was trying to survive during the Troubles." She was close enough now that she could have reached out and touched the plate armor that covered the man.

"Well, it sounds as if you have got everything sorted out, except the why of it," Helm said. "What would possess me to reach out across the planes and pluck soldiers from another realm of existence and bring them here?" He finally turned around, and all that the nature goddess could see behind his armet was his burning eyes.

"I… I don't know." she looked uncertain for the first time since she had stormed in. "What made you do it?"

"Because someone had to. Because the surface world had to be saved, but none had the power or the numbers to do it," he turned back to watch the battle as it continued to unfold. "Allied with the forces of the Abyss, Lolth would have caused unspeakable devastation to the surface and everyone living on it."

"And how do you know that you can control these forces that you've brought in? What if they're like the Githyanki, or worse?" Mielikki asked, cocking her head to the side.

"To compare them to the Gith would not be an apt comparison, Milady, for they are of the Prime." Helm paused. He had always wondered how he would have to explain this. It was only a matter of time before others eventually figured out what he was up to. He slowly turned around once more to face the goddess of the woods. "They come from where I came. They are the descendents of my people, survivors of a war that ravaged and destroyed more than even you can fathom."

"What?" she gasped.

"Ye never told me that," Moradin whispered, speaking for the first time.

"It is not an easy thing to talk about. I had to leave them, slowly pull myself back in order for them to grow strong. I am their father, they my children. But children must learn how to stand on their own, no matter how many times they may fall." He crossed his arms over the besagews of his armor. "They were strong, and they grew. They delved more into technology than any race on Faerun or the other worlds under our domain, because they knew nothing of magic. And now I have brought them here, so that they may save this world, and others."

Mielikki opened her mouth, but for once, she could not find the proper words. The God of Guardians turned once more to face the battle, and she contemplated the impossibility of what he just told her. That there was an entire race of people, of many peoples, far beyond this world, far beyond magic. To imagine such a civilization boggled her mind. And to learn that they were Helm's 'children' no less? So much was happening so fast, and she knew that there would be no going back. Faerun, and the rest of Torril, were about to be changed, and changed in ways she could only begin to imagine.

When Gond had first created his smoke-powder weaponry, there had been outcries from the established power bases all over the world. Leaders, Kings, Empresses and more, who feared what the advent of such a weapon would bring, the social upheaval as any disgruntled person found himself in possession of a weapon almost equal to a wizard's spell. What she had seen was the same, only the weapons were many times more dangerous. She felt a bit of fear then, and though her body did not require it, she felt her breath quicken, as she thought of all that could go horribly wrong when this was over.

And something told her that Helm hadn't told her everything. There was more to this, more he was still hiding.

"If you have no other questions?" he spoke up. "There are still many fights left."

There was something in his tone, something that sounded on edge, almost wounded, that caused her to comply. She withdrew immediately, back to Chauntea's side. Helm's explanation had created almost as many questions as it had answered. The knowledge of the origins of these strange offworlders was in a way comforting, knowing who they were likely to remain true to, but at the same time, it made her wary of the God of Guardians.

How many plots had he constructed? How many plans had he executed behind the backs of her and everyone else?

* * *

Bruenor let out a ferocious battle cry as he buried Ragnarok into a Yochol. The foul Handmaiden let out a shriek that rang through his ears as the arcane weapon cleaved through its waxy flesh and its holy magic burned it from the inside out. To his sides, his Dwarven soldiers were forming up around him, but everyone was sporting wounds. A loud yowling filled the cavern, and the King of Clan Battle-Hammer saw a dark flash out of the corner of his eye. Guenhwyvar roared as she tore into the ranks of the Dark Elves, mauling two of them before they could even react.

He ducked underneath the strike of another Drow, butting his shield into his foe and causing the woman to stumble. To his left, Mortar noticed the opening and lunged forward, quickly cutting off a leg. The female warrior fell backwards with a howl, while Bruenor extended his shield to cover his comrade.

That was one of the reasons he and his men were lasting as long as they did. The Drow were excellent fighters, but were not used to fighting as an army, in massive group formations. Their inability to coordinate was hamstringing them severely.

"Fire support!" Bruenor called in the small microphone he wore.

Two of the Sangheili turned their heavy weapons into the rear ranks of the Dark Elves, cutting a bloody swath through them and slaying dozens, before they returned to firing at Matron Baenre, who was still trying to flitter about the cavern like a Sprite.

Bruenor snarled as a Dark Elf tried to cleave his helmet open, only for the slender swords he carried to rebound harmlessly off the ancestral headgear. Bruenor returned the favor by taking the horned helmet and smashing his foe in the gut with it. The Drow toppled backwards from the force of the blow, leaving him open for the kill. Off to his left, a pair of fragmentary grenades detonated, while the searing heat of a UNSC incendiary grenade detonated on the other side of the cavern.

The Dark Elves were nearing the breaking point, he knew that. Bruenor was worried though, because the Demons were starting to come forward. Gunfire continued to echo throughout the cavern, filling it with a cacophonous racket that made it hard to think.

"Brace yerselves!" Bruenor shouted as he watched a line of Glabrezu approach his forces, some of the wolf-demons knocking Dark Elves aside like bowling pins in their desire to reach the battle. Bullets ripped through them, but while a number of them died, some of them had had the foresight to erect arcane protection over themselves. The withering hail of fire was absorbed long enough for them to close to melee, where the chaos of the battle made it risky for the Sangheili to exchange fire, and left them seeking out other targets to destroy.

One of them closed on the Dwarven King, and he was forced to roll forward in order to evade a downward swipe of the large, crab-like claws that made up the Glabrezu's primary arms. The rightful ruler of Mithril Hall wasted no time, coming up out of his roll and lashing out with Ragnarok. The enchanted axe blade cut through the fur and hide of the Demon, and fiendish blood splattered everywhere as Bruenor scored a deep gash along the inside of the creature's left hip. With the severed muscles and tendons unable to hold it up, the Glabrezu crashed down to its knees, putting its head right in the perfect spot for a follow up attack. Bruenor brought the weapon down, trying to split the canine skull down the middle. The Glabrezu brought up its arms to block, but Ragnarok tore through the two claws.

While they were unable to thwart the blows of the King, they did lessen the impact upon its head, preventing the blow from being instantly fatal. Despite the fact that its skull was fractured and Bruenor could get a good look at its brain, the Glabrezu had the strength to lash out at him with its remaining to arms. The talons on the end of its hand raked deep grooves in the plate armor and shield that the King had, nearly damaging the foaming ale mug that was Battle-Hammer's standard.

Bruenor countered with a furious underhand chop, brining the axe in from below and nearly splitting the Glabrezu's face in half. It shuddered and twitched, before falling over to the side and vanishing.

Other Dwarves, however, were not so fortunate. A full dozen were ripped apart by the fury of the demons, while nearly twice that number were wounded. Even the mighty Thibbledorf Pwent let out a howl of fury as one of the Demons was able to tear through a vambrace of his armor, laying the Dwarf's upper arm open to the bone.

"Pull your forces back, your majesty, let us cleanse their filth from this world," Orna Fullsamee's voice echoed in his ear. In the months since they'd arrived, Bruenor had learned to trust the Ascetic implicitly. He complied, knowing it probably meant that there was heavy firepower being set up somewhere behind them.

"Pull out!" Bruenor shouted, taking just enough time to deflect a blow from one of the Drow that were still mixed up in the ranks of the Demons.

His troops complied quickly, pulling back to nurse their wounds while giving a better opening for the off-worlders to unleash their weaponry upon the Demons and their Underdark allies. Bruenor was growing angry and frustrated, though. Every gun focused on the main bodies of their enemies was one fewer gun pointed at the remaining Matrons and the other high priestesses, and one fewer set of eyes searching for Matron Baenre.

He caught a glimpse of the Master Chief behind the lines of the enemy, still trapped there from where Matron Baenre had thrown him. He seemed fine for now, and his commands and requests over the comm. channels were still as calm as ever, but Bruenor knew that even as powerful a soldier as the Spartan was, he would eventually be overwhelmed if he couldn't fight his way out of there. Already he was busy dodging lightning bolts and fireballs, while other arcane attacks impacted against his shields.

As for the Spartan himself, things could have been going better. Most of the wizards who had tried to attack him were dead, but he had not yet managed to corner Matron Baenre or one of her daughters. The throbbing in the back of his head was growing steadily worse; it felt like someone had buried a battle-axe into his brain. His biorythms were still holding solid but the pain was bringing back memories of how much getting his augmentations had hurt.

"Target, One-Seven-Five low!" he heard, and whirled to see Baenre, hovering some four meters off of the ground, nearly thirty meters away.

The Master Chief leveled his ASG-60, and fired off the last ten rounds he had in the drum mag, before lobbing a plasma grenade at her. The little blue orb moved fast, and actually managed to cling to her. The Matron, absorbed in her spellcasting, didn't notice the tiny explosive until it was too late. It detonated, but not before she had flung off another spell. Pain exploded through the Master Chief's body, and he stumbled, grunting softly as he felt a trickle of blood as he hit his knees.

The grenade detonated a moment later, throwing the old crone against the stone walls of the cavern, now red hot and glowing with the proximity heat of the grenade's power. The Master Chief fought through the pain, and he quickly reloaded and leveled his weapon, taking aim at Baenre.

There was a pop, and something appeared right in front of him, not three meters away. It was one of Matron Baenre's daughters. He heard another pop as the old woman vanished from his motion sensor, and the Master Chief grimaced in frustration.

"Target mobile again. Her defenses are weakened, find her and eliminate her!" he shouted into his mike, while firing a four round burst at the other Cleric in front of him. From the information that he'd been given, he believed that this was Sos'Umpta, Baenre's third born child, and a powerful cleric of Lolth.

The explosive shotgun rounds tore into her defenses though, and she quickly cast a spell, enveloping the Master Chief in a hellish firestorm. He emerged once again, grateful that his shields had been given a chance to recharge. He shoulder checked the woman, knocking her to the ground. She tried to cast another spell, and the Spartan's EM scanners spiked. Knowing that her mother was still lurking around, and every second he wasn't looking for her was one more moment for the Matron's defenses to either recharge or for her to plot a new angle of attack against him, or worse yet, retreat from battle. The constant screaming behind him told him that the various Drow, Mind Flayer, and other such troops were quickly being killed, even if they'd managed to inflict heavy casualties on the teams' melee fighters, and it was doubtless soon reaching the point where the Matron would opt to chose another day to fight. They had to kill her and quickly.

Sos'Umpta, in an impressive display of acrobatics, managed to leap back up to her feet in all of her heavy plate. She then lashed out with both a mace and a whip of five snake heads that suddenly animated, hissing and biting at the cyborg. There was an explosive impact with the mace and a burst of heat, which drained the Master Chief's shields, a fire-burst weapon he recognized, while the whip proved to be nearly useless, unable to find a grip through the force fields that protected him.

The vestiges of the haste spell had faded from him some time ago, but the Spartan still had the physical edge in this battle. He pulled the trigger twice more, and saw Sos'Umpta's shields further weaken under the assault. She lashed out again. The Spartan let the mace blow fall, accepting it in order to further prepare himself for the next attack: the whip. True to form, she swung it again. The Master Chief switched his shotgun to his left hand, and reached out with his right, snatching several of the snake heads and yanking hard. He wasn't trying to pull the device out of the Cleric's hand, but he was trying to force her off balance and get her to stumble. It worked, and she lurched towards him.

He saw fear form in her crimson eyes as he now tore the whip from her hand and threw it across the cavern. Before she could react, he reached out and struck, shattering her defenses and reaching in as she tried frantically to leap away from him. Cobra-quick, John reached out and grabbed the girl around the back of her head, and unceremoniously smashed Sos'Umpta's face into the ground. He felt her skull fracture, shatter, and squash beneath the powerful force of his arm, and he kicked her corpse for good measure, making certain that she was dead.

He turned, looking around for Baenre, only to hear a scream of what could only be rage and suddenly felt the pain in his head surge back. The Spartan fell to his knees, spots flashing in front of his eyes and blood dripping against the visor of his helmet. His shields had not managed to begin recharging when a hellstorm leapt up around him, turning the rocks beneath his feet white-hot. Then he was struck by a swarm of silvery missiles, and his shields shattered.

Alarms warbled in his helmet and his ear, screaming about the danger he was in. He lurched to his feet, willing himself out of the firestorm towards a spot on his motion sensor that hadn't been there a fraction of a second earlier. Matron Baenre was there, some seventy meters away from him. The old woman's face was flushed hot with rage, and he could feel the arcane energies swirling around her, and he leveled his assault shotgun. High explosive rounds detonated against the Matron's shields as more reinforcements teleported in around her, more Clerics coming to aid their leader as another lightning bolt struck him in the shoulder. His Mjolnir armor blacked and deformed slightly from the heat.

The Master Chief hurled a flash-bang, blinding the lesser clerics, but the old Matron herself seemed unaffected by the blast. His shields had only just begun to recharge when she hurled what seemed to be another thunderstorm of lightning at him. Stone and rock shattered before the fury of the Matron's magic, picking the half-ton cyborg up off his feet and hurling him through the air again. The spell seemed animated, like it was an extension of Matron's will, and it smashed him into the ground, crushing the rock underneath him, while the heat of it burned the rock until it was but blackened glass. Readouts swarmed over his HUD, highlighting the numerous regions where the primary plating of the Mjolnir armor had been damaged.

The Master Chief knew it was time to try a different avenue of approach, and rolled behind a rock column that had managed to survive the onslaught of the Matron. He slung the ASG-60 up over his back, and reached down into his rucksack again. He chose his weapon carefully. The cavern was too cramped, the Matron too agile with her teleportation abilities, for a thirty millimeter to be an ideal weapon choice. There were, however, smaller weapons which fit the same bill. He pulled out a fifty caliber LAAG as his shields finished recharging, priming the weapon and cycling a high explosive round into it. Then he wheeled around, took aim, and fired.

As much as he wanted to focus on Matron Baenre herself, he needed to eliminate her minions first, and reduce the number of spells that were flying at him. He watched the hot streaks the bullets made through the air as they pierced adamantine armor and detonated. The bullets acted much like the ones for his pistol, only they packed a much larger punch, and the Clerics never had a chance. Their magical defenses failed, and they were torn apart with such fury that their armor was turned into impromptu fragmentary devices, scything through the air and cutting into their sisters.

But once again, Matron Baenre's defenses proved more formidable. As the most ancient and powerful being the Underdark had ever seen, and protected by magics most Demons and Infernals only wished they could call upon, the old Drow was a different caliber of foe entirely. The Spartan decided to retreat, the comm. chatter that he'd been picking up indicating that most of the melee troops had been butchered. Matron Baenre was more than willing to use other troops against him, and it was time for him to return the favor.

He kept firing at her, shields shattering before the barrage of high explosive rounds while running backwards at full speed as Baenre prepared another spell. Before she was able to cast it, though, he was able to successfully duck back around the large ridge that dominated the center of the cavern. The Matron was unwilling to follow, and the master Chief knew why. Her troops were nearly finished, there was nothing to distract his allies from taking aim at her. The barrage of several platoons worth of automatic weapons would be more than even she could handle.

A red blob was beginning to emerge on the Master Chief's motion sensors, and he whirled around to find the Dark Elven troops in disarray. Most of the demons and spell casters were dead, now it was mop up time. That was a double-edged sword for him, though, as it meant that Matron Baenre might just decide to up and leave. Honestly, he was surprised she hadn't bugged out already. That only reinforced the urgency of the situation. They could not afford to lose this opportunity.

"Spartan!" he heard a voice over his radio, and seconds later, popping noises filled the air as a teleport spell went off. He nearly let off a burst, but he realized that the newcomers were friendlies.

Bidderdo Harpell had teleported over, and he had brought reinforcements. Bruenor Battle-Hammer stood before him, with Drizzt and Guenhwyvar off to the side, as well as Sergeant Johnson.

"You looked like you could use a hand," the Dwarven king said, gripping his axe fiercely, "and I for one, aim to teach the old hag a lesson about invading Dwarf territory."

Once again, the desire to escort Bruenor away from the battle rose within the Spartan, especially in light of what they were facing. There was nothing in the entire battlefield that Mithril Hall had turned more dangerous than what was on the far side of the cavern. But at the same time, he could use the Dwarf, and the others. A plan quickly formulated in the Spartan's mind.

"Her defenses are strong, and they recharge. We have to hit hard and fast, and wear them out before she can recover or teleport away and decide to retreat back into the Underdark," he reached down into his rucksack, and pulled out his last anti-magic grenade. "Sergeant, you still have one?" he asked. Johnson's response was to holster his flamethrower and pull one out. "Good. Baenre's got target fixation, she's focusing on me and nothing else. I'll go out and distract her. Bidderdo," he turned to the mage. "I want you to teleport the others in as close as you can, and come in from the southeast, while I hit from one hundred and twenty degrees out. That'll keep her focused on me and let Drizzt and Bruenor close the distance. Johnson, give them cover fire once Baenre becomes aware of you. Lob the grenades at her, and if you think you need to hurl a frag or a plasma grenade at her, do it. Don't use a flash-bang, they aren't bothering her. That should leave her defenses down and let you close in for the killing blow." He paused, and looked back and forth at the small group. Their faces ranged from eagerness in Bruenor's case, to calmness for Drizzt, to Bidderdo looking quite terrified, but managing to nod his head, and begin softly chanting.

The Master Chief handed over his AM grenade to Bruenor, while Johnson handed his to Drizzt. Then the cyborg rushed out, his fifty caliber leveled. Matron Baenre was waiting for him, and unleashed a torrent of elemental magic as soon as he exposed himself. Superhuman speed and reflexes enabled the Spartan to weave in and out of most of the attacks, while his shields absorbed the few that he couldn't dodge. He kept firing, flinging dozens of high explosive and armor piercing slugs at the old Matron.

Her defenses held as well, and she flicked her hand, unleashing dozens of silvery missiles from her palm. They streaked in, thudding against the Master Chief's shields and against the LAAG. The impacts drained his shields down to fifty percent, and reduced the heavy machinegun to a shredded mess. John dropped the now useless weapon and quickly redrew his ASG. The weapon only had a few rounds left in it, so he fired wildly while reaching for another drum. He didn't necessarily have to land every shot right now. He was a distraction.

As he reloaded and resumed firing, Bidderdo and the rest of the of the group teleported in. As he had thought, the Matron didn't even notice them, and the cyborg kept up the pressure even as more spells struck him and drained his shields further. As he continued to fire on the old Dark Elf, Drizzt, his panther, and Bruenor were rushing in, while Johnson had drawn a battle rifle and was dashing off up the side of a small rise in order to gain the high ground and open up a third angle of attack on the Matron. They were sixty meters and closing, just a few more seconds. Bidderdo began casting another spell, while Drizzt and Bruenor cocked their arms back and readied their grenades for throwing.

Time seemed to move even slower than normal for the Spartan, as he watched it all. The slow curling of his weapon's shells as they were kicked out of the firing chamber, the pellets moving with their explosive cargo as they screamed in towards Matron Baenre, her eyes boring into his, so full of hate and fury.

The grenades went airborne as the Dark Elf rose into the air and unleashed another hellstorm at the Master Chief, shattering his shields again and sending more temperature alarms blaring through his helmet. He felt the ground melt under his feet as he rushed out of the column of white-hot fire, liquid metal and composites dripping off his armor while a large crack formed along his visor. Then the grenades landed, and detonated.

Matron Baenre tumbled unceremoniously to the ground. To her credit, she reacted instantly, and realized her peril. She leapt back up to her feet and managed to twist out of the way of a pair of plasma grenades that came sailing in, moving out of the blast range before jumping to her right to get out of the way of Drizzt's scimitars as he leapt in.

A single crack resounded throughout the cavern as Sergeant Johnson took aim and fired. The man once again proved why he was considered one of the best snipers in the ODST organization. The bullet slipped between the Ranger's raised arms and impacted with Matron Baerne's left shoulder. She gave a scream of pain as her arm was forcibly amputated by the shot, but she retaliated with a terrible fury.

The anti-magic grenades were definitely having problems against more magical entities, the Master Chief thought, as he too drew a battle rifle and took aim. His shot, aimed at Matron Baenre's right leg, thudded off of her shields again. She stuck her remaining hand out, and Drizzt was blown away from her, skidding back over the rock. She raised her hand to call upon a curse, but something happened: a barrage of arcane missiles, similar to the ones she had used against the Master Chief, but fewer in number.

The old Drow's shields seemed to still be suffering some residual effects of the AM grenades, and they shattered under the first half of the strikes. The Master Chief noticed Bidderdo out of the corner of his eye, focusing, willing the rest of the strike forward. It focused on the Matron's chest, tearing into the armored robes that the old woman wore. However, there was something else that he seemed to be targeting. Through the ragged holes that had been ripped in the material, sliding over an adamatine breastplate, was a spider shaped medallion.

The Spartan suspected that perhaps this item was what was powering most of Baenre's defenses, or at the very least, some sort of focusing object. With her defenses were weakened, now was the time.

"Johnson!" he barked as he sighted up and took aim, firing a double tap at the medallion.

"I see it," the sergeant was cool and calm, and two of his bullets joined the Master Chief's. Even then, the magics that held the medallion of Lolth together were mighty indeed, and while damaged, it wasn't destroyed.

The impacts caused it to swing wildly, though, and caused Baenre to stagger. Even so, she was able to give a scream of rage and unleashed a swirling mix of fire and lightning from her remaining arm.

Bidderdo was the target. He never had a chance to react, and the spells tore into him. His defenses were no match for the Matron's raw, arcane fury, and they nearly ripped him in half, blasting his shattered body across the cavern. The Master Chief remained focused. Losing his concentration would not help avenge the Harpell mage in any way. He saw the amulet as it swung wildly around, and the neurons in his brain went into overdrive, calculating speed, angular moment and deceleration, and other calculations that would be required.

He aimed, and fired.

Three nine and a half millimeter rounds shrieked as they tore across the distance, before impacting on the medallion. It could take no more, and the focus object shattered like glass.

He took aim again, focusing on Baenre this time, firing again and again. Johnson joined in, both aiming for center mass. Amazingly, the breastplate held up, though it was dented and the old crone stumbled the impacts and dropped. She landed hard, and the Spartan knew that she had to have broken ribs after that, he started to sight her up again as she started to cast another spell, but noticed a tiny object bouncing in towards her.

A frag grenade.

"Get ye gone from me home!" Bruenor roared, rushing forward as the grenade detonated. A few arcane wards and defenses that survived on the rest of the Matron's equipment shielded her from most of the deadly shrapnel, but the Master Chief watched as most of her robe was destroyed and much of her face ripped open. Still she lived, still Matron Baenre refused to surrender, and she still managed to get that spell off.

It summoned two Glabrezu, who howled, and charged. One rushed straight for him, the other for where Bruenor was. The Master Chief silently cursed, and took aim.

Though Matron Baenre had managed to cast the spell successfully, within her mind, the old Drow knew that she was doomed. The last of her defenses were gone, and there was no chance for them to recharge. Any second, one of the two soldiers would finish with the Demons that she had summoned and fire again upon her, ending her life. She had no more forces to call upon. All the other clerics, including several of her daughters, were dead. As she felt her left lung start to collapse and the other fill with blood, she felt rage, hate, and denial as she had never before experienced them welling up inside of her body and her soul. This was supposed to be Lolth's hour of glory, when she decimated the Dwarves that had dared to resist her and began the subjugation of the surface world. Instead, it had become an hour of wailing and gnashing of teeth. Worse still, was the fate she suspected awaited her in the afterlife. If this was indeed Lolth's test for her, then she had failed it. She knew what happened to failures. Her old heart began to beat faster, hammering inside of her chest.

All that hate, all that desire to destroy something, anything, found a target. She focused on the Dwarf rushing towards her, and she recognized Bruenor Battle-Hammer. The second Glabrezu lunged for him, but the wily Dwarf ducked and rolled, sliding past the Demon, which then had to contend with the fire of the strange, black armored soldier, and the whirling scimitars of Drizzt the Outcast. An idea came to the Matron then, that perhaps if she were to take Bruenor to the next world with her, Lolth might yet be merciful. She focused all her remaining power, and pointed her hand at him. Flames leapt out, streaking towards him and enveloping him.

The Master Chief saw it happen as he fired on the Demon that was closing in on him. Anger surged as he realized his fears about Bruenor were coming true, but there was nothing he could do. There was no way he could safely evade the Glabrezu in time to stop what was happening.

Pain unlike anything Bruenor had ever known surged through his body as the flame crawled over him, greater than the Golem that had smashed his ribs, worse than the sting of Shimmergloom's fangs as the Shadow Dragon had tried to devour him alive, worse than the hellish pain he had endured during their attempt to rescue Regis from Pasha Pook, where he'd been trapped in the Abyss and forced to fight a horde of Demons off. His grandfather's ancient armor shielded him somewhat, but even it began to melt and burn before the flames. Ash enveloped him, and he was aware of the fact that it was what used to be his beard and eyebrows. His body screamed in agony, and he fought the urge not to scream, knowing the flames would cook his lungs to cinders if he were to open his mouth.

But the Dwarven King focused his hate and anger as well. His hate for this wicked old crone that had killed so many of his people, that had caused so much suffering. He summoned the image of the Neverwinter village, its inhabitants slaughtered to the last child, of the Plainsmen tribes as they had been pinned in like cattle, and the faces of all his clansmen and women who he knew had died at Drow hands. It became a battle of wills. The rage of a Dwarven King against a Drow Matron.

The flames ate away at the leather straps that were holding his armor together. His vambraces and besagews fell off, clattering to the ground. His shield fell apart, scorched beyond use, and the leather of his boots cracked, popped, and disintegrated. Still he pressed on. He could see Matron Baenre, ten feet in front of him. Summoning his strength, ignoring the agony that ripped through his body, he lunged at her, taking Ragnarok and pulling it back over his head. He could see the disbelief forming in the Matron's eyes. Fear and terror replacing her rage. Her flame gout sputtered and died as she raised her arm up over her head, trying to shield her face from the blow she knew was coming.

The King of Mithril Hall descended upon her, his armor aflame and fire licking at his body, and with all his rage-fueled might, swung the axe. The holy weapon cut through the armored bracer, through flesh, through bone, and severed the Matron's remaining arm. His wounds taking their toll, he could no longer see the old woman's lips starting to form a scream of denial when he finished his strike. He buried the axe into her skull, killing her instantly. The blow continued, rending flesh and nerve and bone, not stopping until Bruenor had sheathed the axe halfway into Baenre's chest and cut open her breastplate. He heard the shriek of rending metal and felt blood and bone and brains spatter over him, and he knew it was over.

Only then did he allow himself to fall.

He felt the vibrations through the stone as two people approached. He heard Drizzt screaming his name, followed by the Drow placing something against his body. A cooling sensation rushed over the wounded Dwarf, and he realized it was Icingdeath. The enchanted scimitar was putting out the fire. The other form was the Master Chief, and he could hear him calling for something as the world around him started to roar and turn black.

"Stay with us," a third voice joined in, followed by a thump upside his head. It was Sergeant Johnson, pulling out a medical kit and ripping it open.

"Medivac, repeat medivac, priority!" the Master Chief called into the command channel, "It's Bruenor! He's down and critically wounded."

"Understood," Cortana's voice crackled over the commline. "Cloak Tower magi are inbound. How bad?"

"Third and fourth degree burns over the majority of his body and unknown amounts of trauma," the Spartan said, turning around and leveling his rifle, looking for any foes who might seek to take advantage of this situation and finish Bruenor off. He was dying, of that, there was no doubt, but there was still a chance to save him, if they could get him into the ICU of the _Dawn_. There might even be a chance to save Bidderdo. "Bidderdo Harpell is also down, heavy trauma and burns as well."

The air resounded with popping noises, and yellow dots appeared on his motion sensors as the Cloak Tower magi teleported in. Two of them secured Bruenor, holding onto him before they teleported directly to the primary medical ward of the _Forward Unto Dawn_. Two more grabbed Harpell, and vanished seconds later.

It was out of their hands now, and there was nothing more that they could do. It was time for them to move on, and finish up.

"Command, objective accomplished, Matron Baenre is dead, along with most of the other clerics that were down here. Next orders?" he asked over the line.

"Drow forces are retreating on all fronts. We've consulted with Lord Nasher and the other members of the Lord's Alliance. They want us to eliminate all the Drow on the surface so they can't regroup. Fall back and form up with the rest of the HK teams, we'll teleport you up to the surface and you'll join up with them."

"Understood," he said, before looking over to the rest of the group. Drizzt was shaking, but the Master Chief took one look at his face, and understood that it was rage, not fear or shell shock.

"Let us finish this," he gripped his scimitars tightly as they headed back over to the rest of the group.


	35. Chapter 34: The Shadow of Death

Hello again everyone. As always, its been a long time I know. My jobs and deteriorating financial situation have left me little time to write, revise, and proofread. I also had the misfortune of my old computer dying on me, and having to spend quite a bit of time getting a new one up and running and attempting to recover what I could of my tweaking, and I have also been distracted by my other writing project, which is also going to see a much needed update today. I have also been somewhat distracted with Halo 4, which I am of mixed feelings about. On the one hand, I haven't had a chance to read too much of the Forerunner books, so I cannot comment on the Didact situation too much. On the other, the story is at least better than that of Halo: Reach (those of you familiar with me from Spacebattles have probably read my rather embarrassingly length review/critique of that game).

Getting back on track, this is yet another two chapter update. I'm starting to think that this may be the format that I go with from now on, though hopefully without the "thrice blasted eon between updates" aspect (especially since the upcoming chapters are going to need heavy, heavy revision, I think, as parts of them are overly repetitive).

That being said, I do wish each and every one of you a merry Christmas and Happy Holidays/Happy New Year. May 2013 be better and brighter for you all. And, as always, I want to thank each and every one of you for taking the time to read this story. It means a lot to me to know that people like it, despite its rather unorthodox setting. I hope that these two newest chapters are worth your time.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty Four- The Shadow of Death  
**

* * *

High atop the peak of Mount Celestia, a meeting was occurring. The pantheon of the deities of light had gathered, ringed by their servants and soldiers in the center of a large acropolis. Down in the center, Torm, Tyr, and Lathander stood, and off to their side was Mielikki. The nature Goddess sighed softly as she looked around at all the faces that were present. Friends and allies from the past, from wars with the Demons and the forces of evil. Even Bahamut had managed to slither his way into the meeting hall, flanked by an escort of Metallic Dragons. There hadn't been a gathering like this in more than a century.

Contrary to what many mortals believed, Mielikki knew that the Gods and Goddesses of good were not a tightly knit alliance. They had squabbles, disagreements, differences in philosophy and how the world should be run. This led to squabbles and infighting that often made alliances larger than two or three divinities next to impossible, short of a massive Demon or other type of Extra-Planar invasion. Because of these conflicting natures, it was not difficult for the nature Goddess to guess what was the subject of the quiet whispers and mental conversations going on around her.

Everyone knew of the Battle of Mithril Hall, or "Lolth's Folly" as some were starting to call it. However, no one knew quite what to make of the offworlders, aside from the fact that they had extremely lethal weaponry that was utterly alien to the powers of Faerun. They were wondering if the Triad, as Torm and his allies were known as, had discovered something that the rest of them didn't know. If there was something about these offworlders that was even more dangerous than anyone had yet realized.

Torm held up a hand and called for silence. Almost immediately, the quite murmuring and whispers that had been prevalent throughout the acropolis died out.

"Everyone knows what transpired in the past days, and the unexpected arrival of the strangers to Faerun, and the subsequent slaughter of the Drow?" he asked, looking around at the gathered deities before him, and clasping his hands behind his back. "Good," he nodded his head. "I have called you here today concerning these people. Mielikki has discovered their origins, and who brought them here. Listen to her words." He gestured towards her, and opened up the floor.

The Goddess of the woods strode forward, before she felt the words bubbling up from inside of her.

"During the course of the battle, I went to seek the aid of Helm, for The Watcher's eye never blinks, and I believed that he might know, or at least help me to uncover, who these strangers were. More importantly, I hoped he could tell me why they were helping the Dwarves defend their homeland from the forces of Lolth and the Underdark. I obtained my answers, but not how I expected to. I learned that it was none other than Helm himself who brought the offworlders to Faerun." She paused, and looked around, gauging the reactions of all the different Celestials that were present. They ranged from concern to surprise, and Mielikki suspected that only respect for the Triad kept murmurs, shouts, and demands for further explanation from erupting out onto the floor.

"Further, I learned that not only was Helm responsible for this, but that he has an intimate connection with them. He claims that they are his children and descendants, and that he brought them here to fight Lolth and her allies. Aside from a hint that the slaughter we witnessed at Mithril Hall may just be a hint of things to come, this was all that I could extract from him." She finished, and stepped back behind Torm.

"Thank you, Mielikki," he said, bowing to her. "This presents us with a series of problems, but I would first hear what you have to say."

"What problems do you foresee?" the voice belonged to Corellon, Patron deity of the elves, and former consort of Lolth before she had fallen into darkness. His green eyes were narrowed, and his sharp features furrowed with concern.

"I too, share the concerns of my colleague," Eilistraee spoke up. The Dark Elven female was an oddity among the group. She was the daughter of Lolth, worshipped by the few Dark Elves that had managed to slip free of the Spider Queen's tendrils.

Mielikki wondered what must have been going through the other Goddess' mind now, having been forced to witness what might indeed become the beginning of the end for her people. On the other hand, Lolth had a special hatred for her followers, and the nature Goddess shuddered at the thought of what the Spider Queen might have done to them if she had been able to launch her campaign upon the surface.

"Our concerns are that Helm hid this from us," Tyr spoke up, his grisly, blind visage hidden behind layers of cloth and a horned helmet. "He worked behind our backs, and we still know almost nothing about these strange agents that he has executed his will through. We have thus far not been able to scry where they are from, but what we do know is sobering." The blind God of Justice crossed his arms over his chest. "We know that a force of what was no more than a few hundred was able to completely destroy Luskan as a military power. Afterwards, they were able to rapidly train Clan Battle-Hammer and the Lord's Alliance's troops in the use of their weaponry, to the point where they were able to take Lolth's army-an army that outnumbered them more than a hundred to one, an army the likes of which has not been marshaled on Torril since the final days of the Illfarne Empire-and obliterate it in the course of a single night."

He breathed deeply, shaking his head back and forth. "And there could be thousands, possibly tens of thousands more where these forces came from. And they are all descendants of Helm, which means they're likely to follow him almost without question."

"Are you advocating a course of action that would lead to them departing?" Bahamut spoke up. "Would you see them gone from the face of Torril?"

"We have not reached any conclusions as to what to do yet," Torm spoke again. "That is why we have called you here today. A decision must be made. Even as we speak, the dark pantheons are likely plotting away, thinking about how to turn this to their advantage."

"At the same time, we must not discount the possibility that we may have to force the offworlders away from Torril," Corellon spoke up. "We must remember that Helm is not of our Pantheon, and has at times made alliances with the Hells in order to accomplish his objectives."

Murmuring sprang up among the gathered deities, hushed whispers and nodded heads. There was a reason that the God of Guardians was not a member of this pantheon. His methods were at times cold and utterly merciless, and he was prone to using his uniquely potent foresight capabilities to pit two foes against each other, playing them off one another. None could deny the effectiveness of such tactics, but there were those who believed that such manipulations and machinations were more the domain of darkness than light.

Mielikki watched as the murmurs grew louder, but then Bahamut reared up to his full size, spreading wings that seemed to cover the whole sky.

"And risk another open war, so soon after the Troubles?" he glared at the Elven God. "May I remind you, Corellon, it is the allies of Bane and Bhaal that are supposed to war against one another. While we have had our disagreements, open bloodshed of those we consider to be an ally is not our way."

"Then what would you suggest?" the Elf glared at the massive Dragon. "Helm has brought these warriors to our world and unleashed them. They have demonstrated how lethal they are in battle-"

"All the more reason not to rush into this situation without thinking!" Bahamut countered.

Within moments, the place erupted into chaos as shouting matches erupted, insults were traded, and slights that happened thousands of years ago were brought once again to the forefront. The Triad shouted for order, but even they could not be heard above such a din.

Mielikki shook her head back and forth as she watched it happen, as it had happened before, and would doubtless happen again. The Gods of light fractured into their alliances, and each one bellowed solutions and tried to shout out the others, each convinced that they, and they alone were in the right.

* * *

Lolth angrily paced back and forth within her fortress. Outside, the eternal storm that raged in this level of the Abyss roared on and on, as if in sympathy to the raging fury within the dark Goddess' soul. Her shoulders quivered, and her muscles twitched beneath her skin, her hands constantly clenching and unclenching, as if she longed to wrap them around someone's neck.

How? That was indeed the question. How had it all gone so terribly wrong? The troops that she had massed were the best that Menzoberranzan and the surrounding cities could offer. Her soldiers were the best in all of Torril, and the forces of the Abyss had walked side by side with her people, while enough slaves had marched that they should have crushed the Dwarves under the weight of their bodies if nothing else. Yet still they had failed, and failed in such a catastrophic manner that it might be thousands of years before her people were able to recover from the blow. Worse still, her soul was tied to them now, due to Ao's decree, and the deaths of so many of her people had weakened her severely. Her sole consolation at the moment was that after the Time of Troubles, the Overfather had passed another decree, that until further say so, no deity should slay another. At least she was safe.

No, the pragmatic part of her mind countered almost immediately. She was most certainly not safe. She could not be killed by her fellows, but that didn't stop them from plotting against her. Doubtless, the deities of light were already scheming on how they might tromp down to this layer and try to weaken her, while the other gods of darkness met in their secrete places and contemplated how they might wrest what power she had left away from her.

But would they be so bold, she had to wonder to herself. She might have been weakened, true, but this was her level of the Abyss, here, her whim was reality. That had not changed. Only a fool would dare to strike at her on her home territory.

But the situation was still dire. She had suffered a monumental setback, and she could not afford to wait the thousands of years that it would take to restore the Drow numbers to what they were. Demogorgon would grow impatient, and not wish to go through with their alliance.

Speaking of which, she thought, as the doors to her throne room opened. In walked Vhaeraun, the Masked Lord, and Selvetarm, the Spider-who-Waits. The two lesser gods acted as her lieutenants, and she knew why they were arriving. Behind them was Errtu. The mighty Balor had emerged in his full battle regalia. Clad in armor black as his heart, with only his face exposed, and his massive wings draped about him like a cloak. The effect would have intimidated most mortals and likely reduced them to quivering heaps before such a powerful being. However, while Lolth secretly admired the effort that Errtu had put into the display, she was not at all impressed.

She could destroy him easily, even as powerful as he was. However, she was not here to butt heads with the Demon lord.

"You have it, then?" Errtu growled. "My lord, Demogorgon, wishes to know when he will at last be free to unleash destruction again."

"I have the key to his freedom, yes," Lolth said with a smile. She let her mind focus on this, the silver lining to all that had gone wrong. If this alliance worked, all the losses that had been suffered in the battle would be as nothing. Better still, she thought as her smile turned into a smirk, the Prince of Demons was not bound by Ao's laws, and could strike down deities as he pleased. The knowledge that he walked with her would no doubt cow many Gods and Goddesses who would think to come against her, what with the taste of mortality so fresh upon their minds.

She waved her hands, and an image appeared before the group. It showed a dungeon, within the depths of House Baenre, and shackled and chained within a barred cell was Neeshka.

"So your troops caught the wretched spawn of Mephasm after all," Errtu bared his fangs and his hands twitched eagerly. Lolth almost chuckled. Errtu and Mephasm had warred and plotted against one another practically since both had come into creation, this was surely an unexpected bonus for the Balor. "Excellent. How long until the ceremony is ready?"

"It will take three days for us to prepare everything. Once that is done, the ceremony itself will require a few hours. Then your lord will be free." Lolth turned back around to face Errtu, gauging his reaction. The Balor remained still for a few moments, and then nodded his head.

"It is acceptable. Demogorgon will be most grateful." Erttu said with a bow. "If I may inquire though, what exactly do you have planned for the Tiefling once you no longer require her blood?"

"I plan to let my people keep her. Vendes Baenre has ever been a good torturer, and we might yet learn some more things about the strange offworlders who insist upon thwarting our plans."

Erttu chuckled softly, a sound akin to large rocks smashing against one another. "I want to be there when you start. Her screams will be quite wonderful to hear, I am sure." The Balor smirked as he thought back to the times when he had worked with the Drow. He knew well their means of extracting information, and the fact that the miserable little half breed was Mephasm's wretched offspring made it all the sweeter.

He knew the Pit Fiend had a weakness for his granddaughter, and could not think of a better way to take some much needed vengeance upon his old adversary.

"That can be arranged," Lolth said with a grin. Inwardly the Spider Queen was pleased. Such an offering would buy more of the powerful Balor's loyalty, and she would need every ally she could call upon in the coming days. Who knew, if she was feeling generous when the time came, she might even let the Balor try his hand at extracting information from the Tiefling.

* * *

The raging battle of words continued upon the lofty heights of Mount Celestia, and any who traveled by would have been able to hear the thunderous voices of the various deities as they squabbled and shouted in each other's faces. Anger filled gestures and even a few psychic shoving matches had erupted, and as she watched, Mielikki just wondered when the whole mess would come to blows. Lathander banged a gavel against the table in front of him, but the Morning Lord himself could barely hear the impacts with all the shouting, even though they would have sounded like a thunderous avalanche to mortal ears.

Then a blow came, but from a most unexpected source. A bolt of lightning split the cloudless sky and smashed into the center of the acropolis, blasting several of the Gods and Goddesses from their feet and sending their servants tumbling the ground.

_"Enough!"_a voice roared from the entrance.

The acropolis fell deathly silent, and everyone turned to see Helm himself walking forward. The God was adorned as if for battle, with a large bastard sword gripped tightly in his hand, its blade wreathed in blue fire, drawing a few confused glances from those who knew that this weapon was not _Ever Watchful_, his traditional blade. A large heater shield slung over his back, and his cloak and tabard flittered in the wind that blew through the acropolis in the wake of his lightning strike.

"The Gods of darkness plot how to turn the situation to their advantage, the Demons rally, and what do I find my allies doing?" he paused, and Mielikki fought the urge to recoil as The Watcher's burning eyes moved around to the various deities that were present. She knew in her mind that if Helm were to start something, he would be out of his league here. Powerful as the God of Guardians was, he was still but one deity, and could not stand against an entire Pantheon. "I find bickering, I find infighting, I find you squabbling like children fighting over a toy! It is no wonder the Darkness is ever able to steal into the hearts of mortals and corrupt them, because the those of the Light are too busy screaming at each other that because their way is viable, all others must therefore be wrong!"

"Bold words from the one whose fate we are discussing at this very moment," Corellon spoke up, his eyes focusing on Helm.

The Watcher placed the tip end of his flaming blade into the floor, both of his hands resting upon the pommel. He remained silent for a few moments, simply staring at the Elven God.

"When the Drow marched against Mithril Hall and took it from Clan Battle-Hammer, with you fully knowing what they were planning to do with the Hall, what aid did you send to the Dwarves?" Helm inquired.

"What?" Corellon's face twitched into a frown. Where was Helm going with this?

"Surely you opened your celestial forges, and charged your mightiest Paladins to go and assist the Dwarves, lest the Dark Elves and the forces of the Abyss use Mithril Hall as a staging area for their invasion. Surely you let power flow to your clerics and wizards, marshaled your armies…"

"He did not," Mielikki spoke up. "The Troubles descended without warning."

"And after?" Helm pressed. "My point to Corellon being, my point to _all_of you being, that from the moment I became aware of the threat, I began maneuvering and mustering troops. I hid my actions well, just a small amount at first, and a few more later, once the Time of Troubles effectively rendered the forces of Darkness blind." He paused, and Mielikki noted that there seemed to be a slump to the Watcher's shoulders, as if he were tired. "I brought forces and war material necessary to combat the Drow and their infernal allies, because I saw no one else rushing to the aid of the Dwarves, and I knew what was at stake."

"Why not tell us of the danger?" Torm inquired, looking over towards his old comrade. There was a look of genuine confusion on the God's face, almost as if he was hurt that Helm hadn't included his allies in this plan.

"Because I knew that it would dissolve into this same bickering that I just interrupted, Torm." He sighed, and shook his helmeted head. "And time was short in more ways than you can know. Even as you stand here fighting amongst yourselves, Lolth licks her wounds and plans her next moves."

"So what would you have us do?" Corellon looked down at him, the Elf crossing his arms over his chest.

"I would have you let me finish what I have begun," Helm said. "My troops are drawing up plans even now for a final victory over Lolth, one that will leave her broken and irrelevant. But we cannot carry it out without your approval, as I will not open up a war on yet another front and bring my troops into conflict with your own."

"And what is the nature of this plan?" Mielikki spoke up, cocking her head to the side.

"Lolth is draining her cities and gathering all her forces at Menzoberranzan. I doubt even a combined effort by your troops would be able to fight them off. It may be that even mine cannot. But they have weapons that might enable them to turn the tide."

"We have seen their weapons," Tyr spoke up, "and they are powerful indeed."

"Powerful enough that he could turn them against us and our followers," Corellon countered. "I could care less if these offworlders are your children or not, Helm. I say they are a threat to the very balance and stability of this world. They should be removed at once… by force if necessary."

Bahamut opened his cavernous maw, as if to challenge the Elf, but another voice spoke out first.

"The first one of ye who tries such a thing will have all the Dwarves on Torril unleashed upon ya."

Everyone turned to see a small group of newcomers at the entrance. Mielikki saw Moradin at the front, clutching his warhammer dangerously, while behind him were the other Dwarven Gods, Brrenour Truesilver, Clangeddin, and a host of others. The chief Dwarven God took a step forward and spread his hammer wide.

"We Dwarves know who our allies are, and who our friends are. Friends are the ones who risk their necks to come help you when you need it the most. Friends are the ones who save your people from annihilation, while asking for nothing in return." He slammed the head of the warhammer into the ground, causing a small earthquake to rock the acropolis. "So pick your next words very carefully, Elf."

Helm looked down at his old friend, and an unseen smile came to his face. "Thank you, my friend, but more fighting amongst ourselves is not what we need. Especially not now."

Moradin just snorted and shot the Watcher a crooked half grin, his eyes twinkling softly.

"A question," Mielikki spoke up, "when I spoke with you, Helm, you said that these soldiers were from a place far away from Torril. Why did you bring them here, and why are they so different?"

Helm paused, looking into her eyes. A bit of old pain rose up in his soul, but he quickly quashed it. He decided to tell the truth. It might go a long way in restoring some of their trust in him, and he would need that trust in order to get their approval for his next actions.

"I brought them here to fight Lolth, this you know," he said. "As for why they are different, I weaned them off of magic when their civilization was in its infancy, and withdrew all but the barest hints of my power. They learned to rely not upon the arcane, but upon technology. I did this in the hopes of one day restoring my people to what they were."

Silence filled the halls of Mount Celestia then, and everyone stared at the God of Guardians.

"What do you mean?" Torm spoke up, looking at him with an arched eyebrow.

"I brought the Humans to this world before many of you even came into existence, and you all know that I am not from this realm. I was born in a far away corner of the universe as a mortal. There, in life, my people and I battled an entity known as the Flood, and the Gravemind, the 'God' that commanded it. It was a parasitic life form, voracious in its appetite, and a vast devourer of knowledge as well as flesh." He paused, waiting for just the right moment for his next words to have their maximum impact. "For centuries we battled it, and finally, we… won, but the cost was high."

"Ever since then, my goal has been to rebuild, and not merely that, but to exceed what my people had, so that if our ancient foe returns, we will be ready for it. The time has come to begin the union of my people's twin progressions, and it has not come too soon."

"But this foe of yours was beaten," Bahamut asked, arching his neck up and spreading his wings slightly. "Why the urgency?"

"Of all our people, of our countless trillions, only I and a handful of children survived the war! And though the Gravemind was beaten, it was _not_destroyed. Mere months ago, my ancient foe awoke, and only the desperate courage of a few brave souls stopped the Flood before it could begin to spread. It is still out there in the dark depths of the Prime, waiting for a chance to strike again."

"You fear it may come here?" Mielikki spoke up. "You fear that this 'Flood' may come to our world?"

"I fear the Flood landing _anywhere_, Mielikki. You have never seen a foe like this… and pray to Ao that you never do." There was a quaver to his voice, and Mielikki blinked, before looking over to Torm.

He shared her surprise. Helm, the God who had battled Demogorgon throughout the ages, who had long foiled the plots and schemes of Bane, Shar, Mask, and countless other dark deities, often descending to personally engage them in battle, afraid? An unsettling tingle ran through the Goddess of the woods then. The concept of Helm actually being afraid or nervous about facing something in battle was most unsettling.

"You doubt our ability to protect our world?" Corellon spoke up, his arms crossed over his chest again. Mielikki could hear the arrogance dripping in his voice. "I believe we have defended ourselves from the Demons, and the forces of other Planes long enough to know how to protect Torril."

Mielikki blinked, and Helm was gone. He reappeared in an instant, right in front of Corellon. The Elven God recoiled slightly as Helm pressed a metal covered finger into his chest.

"You would be wise not to boast of situations in which you are wholly ignorant, Corellon," he hissed. "You think the Flood would be intimidated by you? You think it would be fearful of you? You think the living forests of Evermeet would protect your people? The Gravemind would laugh at such paltry defenses, invade, consume your people, and leave your broken corpse to drift on the Astral Plane. It took the death of an entire _galaxy_to even stall the great devourer." He paused again, his flaming eyes meeting Corellon's green ones. "Mark my words, Lord of Elfkind, if the Flood ever does find its way here, equipped and readied as you now are, all you will know is fear, then pain, and then oblivion."

For a moment, Corellon felt himself whisked away. Pain assaulted him like nothing the Elven God had ever before felt. It nearly drove him to his knees, and his breath caught in his throat as he felt himself confronted by a massive psychic presence.

_I? I am a monument to all of your sins…. join your voice with mine, or face the endlessness of oblivion!_

The pain assaulted him again and saw flashes of images, too quick to fully understand what was going on. He saw desperate battles on the ground and great fleets of spelljammers larger than anything he would have thought possible, and numerous worlds blasted to nothingness. Then it was gone, and he was once more staring at Helm. He backed away from the Watcher, nearly tripping over his robes, his face looking as though it had been carved from ash. Other deities around him seemed to have similar looks upon their faces, and it quickly became apparent that the Lord of Elves had not been the only one to have received the vision Helm put into his mind.

Helm said nothing, and vanished again, reappearing down on the central floor. The Watcher sighed, and once more leaned upon his blade.

"But my rantings will solve nothing. We waste time while our enemies move. Lolth's attack on Mithril Hall failed utterly in all but one aspect: she acquired the means by which to free Demogorgon."

Gasped filled the halls and all eyes were suddenly glued on Helm.

"You are sure?" Bahamut cocked his head to the side, his large nostrils flaring outwards.

"She is already preparing, while Demogorgon's generals are marshaling their forces. She will be ready in less than half a tenday." The Watcher responded.

"Then we have little time to lose," Torm spoke up. We must muster our own forces and prepare to meet them."

"Indeed," Helm nodded his head. "Now is not a time when we can afford to be divided. The Dwarves have not yet recovered fully from the first battle, and if the Demons march in full force against them, even the new weapons they wield may not be enough."

"What do you propose then?" Lathander asked, tapping a finger against his chin.

"Ready your forces and be prepared to go to war. My troops and I will attempt to launch a preemptive strike upon Menzoberranzan and if possible, wipe it out. Such a move would deny Lolth the staging area for her attack, and destroy many of her forces. It is likely though, that if successful, the devastation from such an event would be great. We need to take steps to begin evacuating the Deep Gnomes and others who live within any appreciable distance of the city, or they could become collateral damage, either when the assault gets under way, or if we fail, when Lolth's force go on the warpath again."

Nods of approval met his remarks, and the deities were soon working together to plot out their courses of action. The threat of Demogorgon was such that even the slights of ages past were put aside to be settled at a later date. Mielikki noticed Helm walking over towards Eilistraee.

"I need you to do something for me," he told the Dark Elf. "It will not be easy, but if you succeed, it will give my strike forces a far better chance of success."

The rest of the conversation dropped off into a whispering that was too quite for Mielikki to hear, and the Goddess of nature find her thoughts drifting. She too had caught some of Helm's mental images. They were fragmented however, and difficult to make heads or tails of. Her mind spun with the possibilities, though, while her heart wept with the destruction that she had seen. Whole planets like Faerun, gone in an instant, so many dead. But if this is what Helm wanted, to restore his people to this level, there seemed to be much good that could come from it as well. A chance for her allies and herself to spread their influence beyond Ao's aegis, to go out and help others who needed it.

The possibilities were potentially endless. She decided then that for the sake of those whose lives could yet be helped, that she would trust Helm, and assist him on this plan of his.

* * *

The Master Chief sat within one of the makeshift operations rooms that had been created within Mithirl Hall. His hands were clasped in front of his face, and in front of him was a holographic projector. He blinked slowly as he watched events unfold through the black box style recording instruments that had been worn by some of the members of team Twenty Four. It was one of hundreds he had watched in the past forty eight hours. All groups had had casualties, but as the battles played out over and over again before his eyes, the Spartan noticed one thing: the Drow did not take prisoners.

So why, then, had they grabbed Neeshka? They had deliberately targeted her, disabled her via non-lethal methods, and hauled her off back towards their tunnels. They had massed for that desperate assault at her position and hers alone. They had retreated as soon as they had grabbed her, and no matter how many other holovids he watched, he never saw them do anything of the sort to anyone else. She had been singled out of the nearly twenty thousand defenders, and the Dark Elves and their allies had been willing to lose literally hundreds of lives in their bid to capture her.

But why? Why was she so important? Did they hope to gleam some secrets from her regarding him? Perhaps they hoped she could teach them some secrets of the technology used against them? He scratched that idea almost as soon as it entered his head. There were any number of other people who had learned just as much, possibly more, about the gear that the _Forward Unto Dawn_and the Neo-Covenant scouting craft had brought with them. There was something missing, some element of the puzzle he didn't yet have at his disposal.

He frowned as he paused the screen, and his left hand slowly balled up into a fist. He let out a breath, and relaxed. Ignorance was a weakness that could be as lethal as any weapon, and it was one that he needed to absolve himself of as soon as possible. He told himself that his agitation had nothing to do with the fact that it was _Neeshka_that was the POW. That it had nothing to do with the fact that he ahd come to see her as part of his family. That he'd worry the same about any other that would have been taken prisoner out of thousands. He almost believed it, too.

Not helping was the feeling of nakedness that was currently filling his mind. He was clad only in fatigues and a BDU. His Mjolnir armor had taken quite a beating in the battle for Mithril Hall, and it was likely to still be another week before it was fully repaired.

He heard footsteps approaching through the door, and twisted his head to see who it was. Moments later, the door opened, and in walked a Dwarf. He was clad in linen and leather, and must have been one of the wounded, judging by all the burn scars that adorned his face. The Dwarf clasped his hands behind his back and walked towards where the cyborg was sitting. The short humanoid's pace was slow, as if he carried a heavy weight, but his shoulders refused to slump, as if his inner will refused to bow to whatever was oppressing him. The Master Chief was reminded of Orna prior to when he had been christened an Ascetic.

"Quite a battle we had, Master Chief?" the voice was familiar, and then it clicked.

"King Bruenor?" John was so surprised that it was a moment before he stood and saluted. "My apologies-" he began.

"Forget about it," the Dwarven king waved a hand. "Ye're not the first one to not recognize me till I opened my mouth and started yammering." He brought a hand up to his chin and rubbed the scars. "It's the beard. Been working on that one for the better part o' two centuries." He chuckled softly. "Your construct did a good job, putting me back together and all, but this seems to be what's left of me face. Hair 'folakels' or whatnot got all burned out where Grandfather's helmet wasn't protecting me." Another chuckle, this one more bitter. "Bruenor the Beardless they'll be calling me from now on."

"I told you we can fix that," a new voice said, and Cortana materialized in the holotank a second later. "Some skin grafts, some flash cloning, your face will be back to normal." She said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"You're kind to offer, lass, but I think I'll keep the scars." Bruenor's voice became quiet. "Your weapons and armor, your 'tanks' and your flying machines, they saved us, but the battle was still costly. Hundreds dead, thousands still out of action. They'll keep me memory fresh, so I won't forget this, or my clansmen that died."

The Master Chief arched an eyebrow, for once not concerned that his face wasn't hidden behind a visor. From what he had learned since he had arrived on Torril, Dwarven males would sooner part with certain other aspects of their masculinity than lose their beards. Something weighed heavily on the Dwarf's mind indeed.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"Yeah, I suppose," Bruenor reached up and ran a hand through his crimson hair, "between trying to pick up after the battle, seeing to all the wounded, and trying to stop the rest of the Clan from cutting their whiskers off to stop from 'dishonoring' me, I can't shake the feeling that this isn't over." He moved over to a chair, and sat down, sighing softly as he did so. "I've fought Drow and Druegar for most of my life, and they never give up after just one try. Sure, we butchered more of them last night than have died in the past two thousand years, but they're going to be up to something. Mark my words."

"It would seem we are of the same opinion," the Master Chief said, turning back to face Cortana in the holotank.

"Still looking through those recordings?" Cortana asked.

"Yes. I've confirmed what you said. No other captured individuals. Not even an attempt at it." He was tempted to start pacing, but he resisted the urge. "They wanted her for something. But what, I don't know."

The Master Chief's hands twitched. They were subtle signs, but to someone who knew him well, like Cortana, he might as well have been pulling his hair out in frustration. John was in unknown territory here. Barring a twenty minute long mishap that he and some of the other members of Blue Squadron had gotten into, and the one time that Johnson had been ambushed by the Brutes, no member of his family had ever been captured by the enemy. Worst still was that he knew exactly what sort of mercy Neeshka could expect at the hands of the Drow. A cold fury worked its way up inside of him, and ideas began to be thrown about inside of his head, contemplating the various approaches and factors of a rescue operation.

He knew, though, that such an exercise was likely to be doomed to failure, or at the very least, would rack up large casualties. They had no idea where Neeshka would be held, how many troops would be in the area, no viable ingress or egress method. The whole thing smacked of 'disaster waiting to happen' as Sam had once said. The Spartan sighed and shook his head. He needed information, and he needed it badly.

"You look like you could use some cheering up," Cortana said, drawing his attention back to her. She understood what was going on inside of his mind. She had been in his head in a very literal sense, long enough to know him as a mother did her child. The comparison was more accurate than most people would think, given that Cortana was created from a flash clone of Dr. Halsey's brain, the woman who had been the only mother he could remember.

Cortana closed her eyes, and there was a loud popping noise. Being around magic for several months now, he recognized a teleport instantly. That was not what surprised him. It was what appeared two meters away from him.

Floating in the air, shining a pristine forest green and matte black, was his armor. Not a scorch mark, scuff, or dent to be seen. His eyes widened and he almost gasped as he reached out a hand, making certain this wasn't some illusion or prank Cortana was pulling. His hands brushed against solid metal, and he knew that this was no trick. It was fixed, completely good as new.

"Little bit of magic, little bit of technology, mix the two together, and voilà, Cortana's Advanced Armor Repair. It's as good as the day it came off the assembly line." The armor separated into its different parts and hovered in the air, revealing the undersuit.

The Master Chief's eyes narrowed, and his facial muscles twitched slightly. He turned to face Bruenor and saluted the King.

"Excuse me for a minute, your Majesty." he said.

John quickly grabbed the undersuit, and headed off out of sight of the other two. Donning it in record time, he came back over and began grabbing parts of the armor, starting with the chestpiece and the boots. The Mark Six was much more user friendly than the Mark Four or Five, and was designed to where no assistance was needed to get it on.

Piece by piece, he donned the outer layers, until he once again began to resemble the green armored legend. The helmet came last, and he paused for a moment as he held the piece of equipment in his hands. Memories flashed before his eyes as he stared at his own reflection. Their arrival here, his fight with the Orcs, the assault on Luskan, defending Lord Nasher. Everything that he and the ones he had come to know as friends and allies had been through.

He blinked, and the memories faded. He turned the helmet around, and slid it down over his head, a smile twitching at the side of his mouth as the familiar hissing of the suit's seals reached his ears. He shifted and twisted a bit, making certain that everything still fitted properly, and ran a diagnostic check over the suit. His HUD told him that everything was green. As his suit finished the shakedown procedures, his motion sensor detected more movement approaching the door. He turned to face it, a moments later, Drizzt and Dove Falconhand appeared.

"There you are," the Drow Ranger said. "Helm's Avatar has appeared, and is looking for us. All of us."

The Master Chief nodded his head, reached down next to the Holotank, and grabbed his enchanted rucksack. He began attaching weaponry as he left the room, wondering what the God could want with them.

* * *

Helm's Avatar was waiting for them in the Throne Room, and to John's surprise, it wasn't the only extra planar entity present. Mephasm was there as well, as were Commander Keyes, Sergeant Johnson, and the leading members of the Lord's Alliance and the Neo-Covenant Commanders. It was Mephasm that held John's attention most, though, and he remembered that the Pit Fiend was Neeshka's grandfather and suspected he knew why the Devil was present. His blue face was twisted into a mask of displeasure, and the temperature was noticeably higher around him.

"Did you see this coming?" he growled at the Avatar.

"I anticipated that there was a very high probability that the Drow would make an attempt to capture her. The various branches of the future were a chaotic mess, however, and very few of them showed any possibility of the Drow actually succeeding in their goal."

Mephasm's eyes bulged, and the air around him began to distort from the heat. John assumed an at rest position and waited to be addressed. At the same time, he was curious. What was going on here? What was this that Helm was talking about foreseeing?

"And how do you propose to correct these problems?" the Pit Fiend growled.

"By adapting our battle plans, Mephasm. We can even turn this to our advantage." Helm paused. "I am not totally unprepared for this." He looked over at the new arrivals.

"Ahh, good, you are here."

"What is the situation?" the Master Chief asked.

"Lolth is regrouping quickly, pooling her forces for another attempt at rushing the Hall, and what is more, she is preparing a ritual that will free Demogorgon from the prison that I put him in." The Avatar began to walk towards where Cortana was. "It is why they captured Neeshka, her blood is needed for this ritual."

"It's because I helped craft several of the components for the rituals that made the Prince of Demons' cage, including some aspects of my own lifeforce. So my blood, or any who bear it, can be used as a component for a counter spell."

"How do we stop them?" Cortana spoke up, her eyes narrowing.

"There is no way for us to be ready to move before they complete the ritual," the Avatar shook its head. "There are too many things that must be gathered. Too many elements that must be brought together to give us the greatest chance at success. And the troops still need time to rest and recover. However, there are ways we may yet thwart our enemies. Drizzt, I need you and the others to draw up as many detailed maps of Menzoberranzan as you possibly can," the Dark Elf nodded. "Cortana, Commander Keyes, Ascetic Fulsamee, you will need to begin preparing for a staging attack on the city with those maps with Commander Tarkimee and his troops." He looked over at the A.I. and his eyes narrowed. "I will also need you and the Master Chief to come with me. I have special tasks for you both."

"What about us?" Lord Nasher spoke up.

"Let your troops rest, and then fortify the Hall and your cities. The other Gods are aware of the situation, and mustering their forces, but they may not arrive for some time, and if we fail, you may have to hold out on your own before you can be reinforced."

"What about him?" Johnson nodded towards Mephasm.

"Make certain your… construct, crafts her battle plans to include me," Mephasm growled, his hands balling up into fists. "I know what fate likely awaits my granddaughter, and for every injury they visit upon her, I will return it a thousand fold!"

The anger coursing through the pit fiend manifested in the room's temperature rising five degrees as he shed his disguise and assumed his true form. John suddenly felt what he could only describe as a pang of pity for any Dark Elf unfortunate enough to come across the Devil. He only hoped that Mephasm could keep his anger under control. This was one mission where anything going horribly wrong could doom them all.

"How are we supposed to hold off the armies during this strike?" Commander Keyes inquired. "We're only going to have a little more than three hundred soldiers, and fighting an offensive battle is a whole different ballgame than a defensive…" she fell silent, frowned for a moment, and then looked up at Helm's Avatar. It nodded its head slowly, and the Commander looked over to Cortana.

"I'll have my subroutines begin preparations immediately. They'll be ready for transport as soon as you get to the _Dawn_."

"Good. Everyone has their orders," the Avatar said.

"Time to move," the Master Chief whispered. He moved over towards the Avatar, pausing by Cortana's holotank and placing his hand on it. The A.I. made the jump over to his suit, leaving a small copy of herself behind to begin preparations for the assault.

There was a spike of pain inside of his head, followed by a cool, liquid rush, and the sound of thunking and someone trying to squeeze into a confined space filled the interior audio speakers of his helmet.

"Forgot how tight it was in here," Cortana said.

"Missed you to," Chief remarked. There was something comforting about having the A.I. back in his suit after all the time she had spent out of it. Now it was time to start planning. With luck, and the proper intelligence, maybe they could save Neeshka after all. As that thought crossed his mind, a grin appeared on his face. It was cold, feral and predatory.

* * *

Within the dark depths of House Baenre's dungeons, Triel Baenre watched as the final security measures were erected around their 'guest.' The newly appointed Matron Mother of the house had every intention of having this plan of her Goddess's go off without a hitch. She was the de facto ruler of Menzoberranzan now, and most of the remaining Drow in the Underdark. All eyes would be on her.

As the last of the enchantments on the prison door were cast, she took a few steps forward, looking through the small slot in the door. The Tiefling was up against the wall, bound by numerous adamantine chains so heavily enchanted that Toriel doubted even an Iron Golem would be able to damage them, let alone break them. Surrounding her were a series of runed circles, tailor made to house the half-breed within them. A full score of House Baenre's elite soldiers guarded the cell, as did a High Priestess. They were backed up by two Yochols, who would be ever alert for trouble. The cell block was to be scryed at all times, and teleport blocks were in place to keep any unwelcomed visitors away from Lolth's prize.

There was also only one key to the cell in question, and it was secured around her wrist, never to leave her person until the ritual was completed. The key itself was blessed with so many charms, wards, and enchantments that even with her impressive mind Triel couldn't remember what half of them did.

Still, she was nervous. They had already underestimated the Tiefling's allies once, and the cost had been dear. It was possible still that they might find some way to come down here and take the battle to them, especially if they figured out what was going on and what was at stake.

"I'll be glad when this is over with," her sister Vendes muttered off to the side. The other Baenre cleric fingered the pommel of a dagger that was slung into her belt. Triel fought the urge to role her eyes as she glared at her sibling.

She knew exactly why her younger sibling wanted this to be over with, and it had nothing to do with getting the ritual done successfully and enlisting the aid of the most powerful Demon in existence.

"Sister, can you please keep your mind off your trade for five seconds?" She looked around to face her sibling. "Mother is dead, so are three of our sisters, and half of our troops. The fate of our entire civilization is at stake here!"

"I know, Matron, I know," she bowed low, smirking as she did so. "But I am supposed to take pride in my craft, and working on half breeds is a rare treat for me."

"You will have plenty of time to extract information from the prisoner _after_ we are through with her." Triel walked up to her sister and looked her dead in the eyes. The normally fearless torturer took a step back from her elder sibling. "If, before that time, something happens to her. If _anything_ happens to her, I will hold you responsible. If I find out you were _involved_, then I will personally travel to Watcher's Keep and feed you to Demogorgon myself! Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

Vendes nodded softly. She had seen the quiet rage in her sister's eyes many times. Few on the receiving end of Triel's wrath lived to tell about it.

"Good. Notify me if you even feel like something is out of place or not right. I will be in communion with Lolth."

With that, the new Matron Mother left the dungeons, heading for the Baenre Chapel.

Within the cell, Neeshka fought the urge to growl. Her eyes kept darting around the small chamber she was in, and what little of the outside world she could see. The room was solid rock, reinforced with metal strips, probably adamantine. There were so many spells and enchantments in the area that they made her skin crawl and her blood tingle. She had already carefully tested how much give the chains had, and she suspected they might have held a young dragon. The rune circles were also perfectly constructed, and the door of the cell could likely have taken a chain lightning spell and kept on smiling, as Johnson would have said.

The Dark Elves had also been careful to remove anything in her cell that she might have been able to use against herself, reinforcing her belief that for whatever 'ritual' they were talking about, they obviously needed her alive.

Her chances of escape did not look good, and a depression of resignation threatened to slip over her. Still, she refused to give up. There was always a chance, however slim, that the enemy might slip up and make a mistake. She had memorized the route from the front gate to the dungeon, and knew enough about hiding that she could make herself scarce if she could just get out of this cell block.

The dungeon overseer peeked through the slit in the door, staring at her with a look in her crimson eyes that was somewhat unsettling. Neeshka returned the glare with a calm stare. She thought about what the Master Chief or Johnson would have done in this situation, and hoped they were okay.

What she did know, though, was that they would not waste time and energy wallowing in self-pity. Neeshka took to observing what she could. How many guards were present, what they were armed with, what she could tell about them based off their stance, and when the time came, how often they changed out their guard shifts. Even if escape proved impossible, she swore she would go down fighting.


	36. Chapter 35: Defcon One

**Chapter Thirty Five: Defcon One**

* * *

Commander Mirada Keyes kept her gaze level as she walked through the corridor and headed for the Dawn's secure armories. Behind her were Sergeant Johnson and a number of Faerunian natives, Wulfgar and Dove Falconhand among them. Both of them were the representatives of their people at the moment, and they wanted to be on hand to help with whatever it was that was being retrieved. Miranda just hoped they knew what they were getting themselves into.

Ordinarily, she would have gotten a few Neo-Covenant troops to assist with this, but the specially made carrying cases for what they were about to retrieve had been designed specifically to make it hard for the Covenant's races to carry them. Among these were a biometric scanner that would deliver a shock to any Human not authorized to carry it, which had enough power to knock a man across a room. It would be necessary to enter them into the system, something that Cortana's subroutines would have to do when they arrived.

The UNSC officer let out a sigh as she rounded the final corner and before them was the secure armory. The thirty millimeter cannons jerked to life, watching her every move as she walked over towards the door. The rest of the natives held back as she approached, no doubt nervous about the auto-cannons. They'd seen what those things could do to a person. Just as well, the Commander thought to herself. While the carrying cases for the Dawn's special weapons could be programmed to allow for more people to carry them, only she and the Master Chief had access to this particular room.

Miranda approached the myriad of defensive locking mechanisms and got to work. First she inserted her hand into a small box like protrusion, that quickly sealed itself around her wrist. Once that had been done, a needle came out, taking a blood and DNA sample. It confirmed her identity, and indicated the next step of the clearance process. More scans followed, her UNSC standard issue neural links were analyzed, retinal and fingerprint scans, voice analysis, and finally, she entered a twenty digit alphanumeric code. At last, the doors opened, though the cannons still tracked her movement.

Miranda passed through half a meter of solid Titanium-A to reach the small room. A series of slots opened up in front of her, and out came several small objects. She placed them onto a cart, and carried them out. As soon as she was past the doors, they hissed shut, and the locks reengaged. To her right, next to the lockers, another series of hatches opened up and extended outwards, revealing a number of carrying containers, each of them cylindrical and about six feet long. They were gunmetal gray on the outside, while the interior was filled with shock absorbing foam and padding.

"You can approach now," she said to the others.

They did so cautiously, most of them following behind Sergeant Major Johnson as he moved up towards his commander, and immediately began helping her load the objects.

"I remember this area," Wulfgar said. "The Master Chief said that it was to contain 'weapons of mass destruction.'" He got his first good look at the objects. There were two different types. The first were six small oblong devices, which reminded Wulfgar of the mortar rounds they'd used to defend Mithril Hall. The other three objects were larger, about foot across and bullet shaped.

"That's exactly what these things are," Commander Keyes said. "I need you to get entered to the biometrics system, so you can help carry these things back to the dropships, and then to the Hall. Otherwise the defense systems in the containers will engage. Cortana, walk them through the process"

"Aye-aye, Ma'am," the construct said,

"What exactly are these things?" Dove asked as she walked over.

"The instrument of our success," Cortana said as she started taking blood samples. "We're not just going to show the Dark Elves that we can stand against their armies and drive their forces back into the darkness, we're going to do something no army has ever done before: take the fight to them. We will show them that they cannot hide from us, cannot run from us, that their civilization will exist at the whim of the surface world. It'll send a message that if they raid, attack, or otherwise invade the surface, they will die."

"But what are they?" Wulfgar inquired as the needle slid into his wrist. He looked down at the instrument with mild curiosity. If it pained him at all, he did not let it show.

"The mortar rounds are chemical delivery systems, Novichok derived," Sergeant Johnson said as he placed one into its holder and secured it. "Each hundred and twenty millimeter round has six canisters in it. Each canister has a cocktail of components in it that are harmless on their own, but when they mix, they combine to create TH-138, codenamed 'Cold Silence.'"

"Which is?" Dove asked, standing over them and gently picking up one of the mortars.

"It's a nerve gas," Johnson started. "Think of it as a highly toxic poison, more potent and dangerous than anything you've ever seen before in your life. It was originally designed to be used against Humans, but with some tweaks and a few more chemicals, it was adapted to work on Covenant biology as well." He and Keyes closed the first carrying case, locking it and activating the biometric defense systems.

"A poison," Wulfgar frowned. "How dangerous is this 'Cold Silence' when it is used."

"Depends on the vector," Keyes said. "A spoonful of its liquid components, mixed, dropped on the floor…" she paused. "Probably enough to kill everyone in a thirty to fifty meter radius."

There were quiet gasps, and the natives exchanged glances as the two UNSC soldiers began to load up the second tube with mortars.

"The same amount of components mixed, launched, detonated and aerosolized in the air?" Johnson picked up, and then paused, looking up at everyone present, staring at them behind his visor. "That shit'll kill sixty, seventy, maybe even eighty-"

"That's not too bad," Wulfgar muttered.

"-thousand." Johnson finished. "Up to eighty thousand dead." The Plainsman gulped as the Sergeant Major finished. "Each mortar has enough of the binary components to wipe Waterdeep off the map. It's odorless, tasteless, colorless, heavier than air, and by the time you realize that it's killing you, it's already too late."

Every face in the room was ashen gray, and they backed away from the mortar rounds.

"They're harmless right now. The components are kept separated in chambers that need microdetonators to break. Those require special command codes to activate. You will not trigger these things by banging, dropping, or otherwise manhandling them." He closed the second case. "Nevertheless, and I want everyone to hear me very carefully here, you treat this shit as if it were armed, and the slightest jostle could set it off. You treat it, as if the very _second_you stop respecting it for what it is, that it will kill you."

"And how does it kill?" One of the other Faerunians said, a Neverwinter officer by the name of Bevil.

"Gas works in several stages. A little bit simply makes you... stop. The gas primarily acts as a nerve inhibitor, stops your brain from sending messages to your muscles by making them contract continuously. Most importantly, your diaphragm, which is how you breathe. The spasm would be incredibly painful, but by the time you'd feel that, you're already unconscious, because the oxygen flow to your brain's been cut off completely." Johnson strapped another mortar round into its case. "Higher concentrations... think of all your muscles clenching at the same time, only very hard. You spasm so hard you break your bones and rupture your guts. Then you start puking them up. The gas also has a corrosive component designed to eat through traditional protective gear. That'll cause your skin to melt off. It's a very agonizing fifteen seconds before you die."

There was silence. No one spoke for several seconds as the two finished loading up the last of the mortars.

"Tyr's Lost Hand," Dove whispered softly.

"My thoughts precisely. This is some of the nastiest stuff Humanity has ever invented. We used it to save ourselves from the Covenant, but it is not a good a way to die." Johnson said. "Your only consolation is that from the time you come into contact from the gas, either by inhaling it or by absorbing it through the skin, is that you're going to die very fast."

"And the other devices?" Wulfgar asked.

"Havok class thirty megaton tactical fusion bomb." Cortana spoke up. "TH-138 is good, but in the war with the Covenant, it wouldn't stop Hunters, combat shielded Elites, vehicles or aircraft. Likewise here, we don't know if Demons will be affected by it. Certain other creatures that we may run into, like the Illithids or Dragons, may be immune to this stuff, either by having radically different physiology, or simply being too large for the agents to effectively cripple them. That's where these come in."

"We're bringing multiple bombs so in case one or two of them get knocked out, it isn't game over. Either we leave them behind when we withdraw, or we set them off as we all die," Johnson said. "Either way, Menzoberranzan gets a nice little dosage of instant sunshine." The natives looked at him in confusion, and he realized they probably didn't get the concept of fusion. He frowned for a moment, trying to think of how to best explain it. "Look, long story short, when we detonate these things, for a very brief moment, the Drow are going to have a sun form in their city. You guys know what a ton is, right?" They nodded. "You know what a blast globe is?" Another set of nods. "Okay, well this is going to be like setting off _ninety million tons_worth of blast globes down there." he pointed to the ground. "Just like the mortar rounds, they're harmless right now, and you could do everything up to an including running them over with a tank without hurting them. Nonetheless, you treat this thing as if it were active and ready to blow. Am I understood?"

A series of nods and quiet affirmatives met his inquiry as he and Commander Keyes loaded up the last of the devices. "Good. We just need to get some antidotes for our strike force, and then we're moving out of here."

"Gods have mercy on us all," Dove whispered quietly. She found herself wondering what Drizzt would think of this device. He had been uncomfortable enough with the UNSC's and Neo-Covenant's 'small arms.' And now to discover that their allies had weapons that could scour entire cities from the very face of Torril.

She looked around to the face's of her fellows as they carefully picked up the cases, now that they had been loaded up with the weapons. Everyone's visage was ashen, or pale beneath their tanned skins. What made it all the more unnerving for the young woman was that Sergeant Johnson and Commander Keyes were treating this like it was routine, as if they had often employed such weapons.

She had seen how the UNSC and the Covenant had battled in their recordings, but this… this was still so strange. The idea that such a small device could have so much destructive power. Not even Elminister, or her sister, or any wizard that she knew of could boast of such power. It was as if they held the very power of the Gods in their hands, the ability to 'smite' a foe at will, and destroy them utterly.

No one spoke on the way back to the Pelican, but everyone was thinking, and wondering just what they were about to unleash.

* * *

The ceaseless sound of dripping water filled the cavern, grating on the Mercenary Captain's nerves. Jarlaxle growled softly as he looked around the area. Barely half of Bregan De'arth had escaped the battle for Mithril Hall alive, and more than three quarters of its spell casters were dead. The mighty mercenary company, which once had the power of some of the strongest houses in Menzoberranzan, was now a shadow of its former self. In this time, they looked to their leader and commander, but Jarlaxle was not certain what he could do.

Returning to Menzoberranzan was out of the question. Word had reached him of his Mo-of Matron Baenre's death, of Triel's ascension to power. Triel would likely be able to deduce, with Lolth's help if necessary, that he and his troops had fled the battle before the retreat was sounded. He could imagine what horrors the new matron would unleash upon the men and women under his command, trying to show that she was 'strong' and that such weaknesses would not be tolerated. No, he would never subject his followers to that kind of end. But he needed to do something to raise morale, and it needed to be done fast.

Food and water may not have been an issue, thanks to the magi that _had_managed to avoid getting blown to pieces by that armored giant, but an army could only mull on defeat so long before it began to affect their performance. He needed a miracle.

At that thought, he frowned, and his one visible eye almost began to glow with malevolence. How could they have been forsaken like this? Where were the warnings from Lolth? Where were the alerts from the Matrons? They had walked blindly into a trap the likes of which he would have never before thought possible, and their entire civilization had paid the price. He knew that tens of thousands of his people were dead, and so many slaves that Menzoberranzan and the surrounding cities would likely have revolts on their hands and a severe likelihood of the power base simply collapsing without anything to support it.

Why? The question continued to echo in his mind, and he felt it fester in his soul. He was angry, his hands trembled in rage as he sought to think of something to do, so he didn't feel so powerless.

"The answer to your question is one that is simpler than you know." He heard a voice speak.

He knew it was not one of his soldiers, and in the blink of an eye, Jarlaxle had exploded into action, leaping up off of his feet and drawing his blades. The action was mirrored by every single one of his troops as they swarmed to protect their leader from this intruder.

It was a Dark Elf, a female, clad in a silver robe with a blade belted on at her side. Jarlaxle frowned, knowing that he had seen this woman somewhere. Then the unearthly beauty of her struck him. He was reminded of Lolth, but this was not her. It was Eilistraee, forsaken daughter of the Spider Queen, Matron of the 'goodly' Drow. He had been raised from birth to hate her and everything she stood for, and were he any other Drow, were his soldiers anything other than what they were, they'd have launched themselves at the Avatar seeking only its destruction in Lolth's name.

Centuries of skulking about in the shadows, however, had made Jarlaxle nothing if not pragmatic, though he was still suspicious. The Goddess would not have come to him if she didn't want something. At any rate, charging headlong at her would likely just result in an unacceptable level of casualties. He had lost too many of the loyal men and women under his command as it was, and he was not about to send more of them to their deaths if he could possibly help it, especially over such a fruitless goal.

"What do you want?" he asked, narrowing his exposed eye.

"As you suspected, to ask something of you," she said, and Jarlaxle immediately clamped down on his thoughts, raising mental walls and slamming the doors to his mind close. She smiled as he did so, and the Dark Elf felt a pulse rage fly through him. The Goddess was mocking him! "My sincerest apologies," she said with a bow, something that surprised the mercenary captain. "It was not my intentions to offend the great Jarlaxle. I came to offer you a chance to pick yourself back up, to join the winning side, avenge your fallen brethren, restore your pride, and make a tidy fortune in the process."

Inwardly, the Goddess of the goodly Drow hoped that Helm knew what he was doing. She did not fully trust these renegades. But, she had to admit, there was something to be admired about how they remained loyal to one another when their entire society was built around back biting and betrayal. She was trying to appeal to all the things that she could think of right now, the things that she knew would spark within Jarlaxle's heart. A chance to restore the pride of an outcast who had once rivaled all but the greatest of Houses, to avenge the men and women so loyal to him, and, of course, fatten the wallet of his organization.

"Presuming that I am interested in whatever lackey like task you would have us perform. What would you have us do?" He lowered his blades, but kept them drawn.

"I would have you join the winning side of this battle," Eilistraee spoke softly, crossing her arms over her chest. "I know the thoughts that have gone through your mind, Jarlaxle Baenre," the gaze of several of his followers snapped to him in that moment. "I know how your own mother disowned you and reduced you to nothing but a houseless rogue, doomed to skitter about in the darkness to avoid being slain. I know how that has festered in your heart and never left you." She took a step forward, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I saw the Battle of Mithril Hall unfold from on high. I saw how your men and you were led blindly into a trap. The scores that died trying to carry out your orders."

"The fault was not mine," he hissed. Without thinking he raised his arming sword up to the Avatar's throat. Only later did he realize how badly things might have ended in that moment. But rage demanded that he respond. The blood that had been shed was on the Matrons hands, on Lolth's, not his own!

"No, no it was not," Eilistraee whispered softly. If the blade at her throat bothered at all, she did let it show. Inwardly, she knew she was making progress. When it came to his men, Jarlaxle had a righteous fury that was so rare in his people. To die in battle was expected, but to but slaughtered without the slightest bit of forewarning or aid after it happened? That was something else. He felt betrayed once again. Betrayed, without cause or reason. Betrayed for the sake of betrayal.

"The fault lies with the darkness your people serve. Why do you think Lolth did not come to your aid?" She started to walk around, looking to the others, seeing that she had gotten their attention as well. She had them interested in the lure, now it was time to hook them. "You were not worthy of survival, in her eyes. The same way you were not worthy in the eyes of your mother. You and all your troops were nothing more than fodder in her mad bid for power over the other gods. I am truly surprised that more of your people have not figured it out. You have been given a deck rigged against you, and you wonder why you cannot win." The Goddess looked straight into the eyes of Jarlaxle. "For you it was even worse: you were a threat to her. You may not realize this, Jarlaxle, but in your heart, you have always been flippant about Lolth, and have all but forsaken her cause. You and your fellows made your own paths. You refused to play Lolth's game. She could not control you, and so, as ever, she sought to destroy that which she could not control."

"As for the whole of the forces Lolth send out and lost, why did _they_ lose? You cannot look objectively at the society in which you have grown up yourself, nor can you see the machinations of Gods. But did it ever occur to you that perhaps she is _not_as powerful as she says? Had the invasion of the upper world succeeded, ah, well…? But that's an opportunity she lost."

Eilistraee could see it in their eyes. They were listening to her. All of them were outcasts who had barely managed to survive in their early days on the streets. Jarlaxle had taken them in. Given them shelter, a 'family' of sorts, camaraderie, and something that was missing from the Dark Elven society as a whole: allegiance to a higher cause. While such unity made them better fighters, as they could trust who would have their back in a scrap, and not have to worry about friend becoming foe the moment it became convenient to do so, it jeopardized Lolth's agenda.

Eilistraee could see the gears working behind their eyes, and moments later, almost to a one, they realized the further awful truth of what that meant. Their fallen comrades could be viewed as traitors in Lolth's eyes, and if the Spider Goddess still held anything resembling power over their souls, it meant that they were now suffering unspeakable tortures at her hands. More so, it meant that that might also be their fate, if things did not change. Was that it, then? Was this some trick sent by Lolth, one final act to see if she could forever sink her fangs into him and his followers?

"So you would offer us salvation, then?" Jarlaxle sounded indignant and disbelieving. "Save us from the toxic pits, eh?"

"I have always tried to be your salvation, Jarlaxle…" For a moment, there was something immensely sad within the eyes of the Goddess, an agony that Jarlaxle couldn't quite place. "For you, for your comrades, for all your people…but you have never asked for my aid." She shook her head. The seeds had been planted, though. The rest would be up to them. Time to get down to the rest of the business at hand. "I am here to offer you a job. The enemies of Lolth will strike once more, at the very heart of her cancer. They will require reliable transport into the city, though. And none know the city better than your mages."

Jarlaxle cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. Had the Avatar seriously just asked them to help mount an assault on Menzoberranzan? At the same time, he could not deny that the idea was a pleasing one. Vengeance was ever present in the Drow, and part of Jarlaxle's being demanded that he try and get revenge on the ones who betrayed him so.

"Go on…" he said quietly.

* * *

Matron Mother Triel paced back and forth within the great hall of House Baenre, her hands clasped behind her back and her brow furrowed. Every now and then, her eyes would drift over towards the throne in the center of the room. She had always known that the day would come when she would ascend to her mother's place, but she had hoped that it wouldn't be for some centuries hence. At this time of crisis, with her entire civilization vulnerable, and everything depending upon this ritual to free Demogorgon, a ritual that she suspected her foes knew of.

There was an attack coming. She knew this much. Scouting reports indicated that the Deep Gnomes were abandoning their cities all over the Underdark, their people evacuating and heading for the surface at all possible speed. Even primitive 'creatures' like the Myconids were leaving. It would simply be a matter of time before a massive surface army marched down those tunnels and came on the offensive.

She was determined to be ready for them, and had prepared her defenses, concentrating them in rings throughout the city, under orders to fight a slow retreat and lure the surfacers in when they showed up. But until she had the Demons behind her in full force, there was so much that could go wrong. They were far too vulnerable for her liking. Not helping things was Jarlaxle's absence. While the outcast had always been a rogue to them, and had never been welcomed back into the House unless their mother had needed some dirty work done that could not be traced back to House Baenre, she had expected to be able to call upon his four hundred crack troops and magi during this time period.

But there had been no word of him or any of his followers after the battle, leaving Triel to conclude that either they were wiped out to a man, or that her brother had shown his true, cowardly nature and fled from the field, too ashamed to return. She glared at the thought, and honestly wished she could see him at this moment, so she could tear into his mysterious head and find out exactly what was going on in there all the time. She also couldn't help but remember all the slights that her brother had done to her since he had been thrown out. From petty insults to his flippant lack of respect for her since she was naught but a 'mere' High Priestess of Lolth.

So many times she had wanted to punish him for his arrogance and his impudence, but something had held her back. Fear, she supposed, fear of what his strangely loyal followers might do to her if she were to try anything. She had been powerful then, but not powerful enough to withstand the full might of Bregan De'arth. That, and her mother would likely not be pleased at the slaying of a potent 'ally' that she could rely on.

Shaking herself out of fantasies about revenge on her brother, Triel looked back toward the throne, examining the workmanship from afar, and the new addition she had had installed just yesterday. Triel had always been a little challenged in the height department, even among Drow Females. She was barely four feet tall, a half foot shorter than her mother had been-another thing that Jarlaxle had always mocked her about. There was now an extra step on the throne, along with a slight increase in the size of the armrests and the seat, in order to make her appear to be taller than she really was.

She tossed her insecurities aside as the door to the throne room opened. Her guards said nothing, but merely bowed and retreated back outside, leaving her and the new arrival alone. Triel let a vindictive smile come to her face as she stared at the other woman. She had been looking forward to this meeting for some time.

"Step forward, Captain Talra," she extended her hand.

The other woman did so, but remained silent. Matron Triel could see the gleaming, adamantine fist of the Captain's newly crafted arm, and knew that one of her legs was now similarly constructed.

"You sent for me, Matron Mother?" Talra asked, bowing her head low in respect.

"Indeed I did," Triel said. "I understand that you fought alongside Matron Hesken during the battle, and managed to survive the strange demon that Bruenor has managed to enscroll at his side." The Captain nodded her head, and Triel smiled again. "Tell me what you know of the creature. I have read reports and a few papers, but," she let her smile widen, "I am someone who prefers firsthand knowledge."

* * *

The room was empty and cavernous, devoid of both Dwarven troops, and the confounded 'technology' of Helm's personal shock troops. Just the way he wanted it now. Mephasm sighed as he leaned back against the wall, the cool rock doing little to offset the burning rage within the Pit Fiend's heart, or the fiery temperature of his body. He hadn't bothered with his disguise, and stood exposed to all who would happen upon him. He was one of the personal servants of Asmodeous, among his kind he had virtually no equals, and throughout his millennia long existence, he had done much to advance the cause of his master. It had paid off, and there was a reason that few had ever plotted to supplant his power and position.

He had often thought about trying to vie for a higher place within the ranks of Hell, but he had just as often discounted it. The great Pit Fiend had reached a place within the ranks that he was happy with. He had power that nearly rivaled an Arch-Duke of Hell, but not nearly so many responsibilities or as many people trying to plot his fall down a social ladder where the higher one went, the longer (and more deadly) the plunge became.

But then, nearly forty five years ago, something had changed. He had been summoned into the world by a sorceress who knew his true name. Such things were bound to happen every few hundred years, and unlike some of his kin, Mephasm had come to accept such inevitabilities. Where his kin would be more apt to try and search for a way to tear free of the summoning circle and paint the room with the blood and innards of the one who had dared to rip them from their home, the great Devil instead sat back and listened to what it was that the mortal wanted of him. Their souls would find their way to his domain quickly enough, and they might even be turned to allies as well.

This woman, though, had wanted something else. Oh, true enough she had wanted power, but she had also wanted a child. For what purpose, the great Pit Fiend could not possibly imagine. Half breeds were not unheard of, but he was unfamiliar of any woman actually asking for one. He had obliged, and then forgotten all about the event, some decades later. He had been looking over reports for another great victory his troops had won in the Blood War, when he had felt something in his blood tingling. Something tugging at his infernal heart. He recognized the call's location, and had half a mind to ignore it. The call was weak, puny, not worthy of his time.

But it had kept up, and felt different from a magi's summonings. Curious, he had put the report aside, and appeared upon the Prime. What he found shocked him to the core. The snows of winter were deep, and steam hissed almost immediately as it began to evaporate around him. But that was not what held his attention, nor was he bothered by the otherwise numbing cold.

It was what was twenty paces in front of him. Huddled under a tree, clad in the robes of a Helmite, was what appeared to be a young girl, no more than ten if he were to hazard a guess. Curious as to how such a small thing could have possibly called to him, he drew close. Then he saw the horns and the tail, and upon the child's shivering forehead, a series of dark, mottled markings.

She was of his blood. His eyes had widened as he remembered the summoning those years back. This girl, though, was no half-breed. She was a Tiefling, probably a descendent of the original child. Something of the sorceress' plan had obviously gone awry, especially if this girl was clad in the robes of one of Helm's priests. He saw her lying there, and he could see her freezing to death in the snow. That was what the call had been. An instinctive cry for help.

Most of his kin, their curiosity satisfied, would have returned to the warmth of the Hells. Something compelled him to stay. He walked towards the small Tiefling, and she glanced up at him, as if she was finally becoming aware that she was not alone. She scrambled away from him, the robe falling open as she dug for a small dagger, holding it in front of herself. Her eyes gleamed a fierce crimson, another sign of her infernal heritage, and he could see sharpened fangs in place of her canine teeth.

There might not have been the power of a true Cambrion in her, but this child had inherited much of his blood, Mephasm had realized. He also saw the very full coin bag belted onto her clothes, and the fearlessness on her face and in those crimson orbs. She obviously knew what he was, if not quite who, and still was not afraid of him. Something had awoken in the Pit Fiend then. Mephasm recognized pride, and something else, something he didn't fully understand at the time. His blood ran strong indeed in the veins of this girl.

With a gesture, he cast a spell, and she struggled for a minute, before falling asleep. He shifted his form, appearing to be a normal human with dark hair and sharp features. Scooping the girl up in his arms, he teleported himself and her to a small town just south of Neverwinter. Emerging from an alleyway, he walked into a tavern, and paid for a room for the evening. A simple spell, and no one thought anything about the presence of this strange human holding a Tiefling girl in his arms.

He had watched her throughout the night, having no need for sleep. Her condition had steadily improved without the need for any of his magic. Again, he was impressed, again, pride and something else filled him. The child was strong. He had stayed with her until she had awoken. Then, he knew he could put off his duties no longer, and he had to return. He had stayed just long enough to find out her name: Neeshka.

Normally, that would have been the end of it. But something kept calling him to her. From time to time, he would scry the young Tiefling, find out what she was up to. He watched as she learned the art of thieving, lock breaking, trap disarmament, pocket picking. He watched as she learned the way of the sword and the bow, of striking from the shadows. And always, there was that unquenchable strength she had. She strove to be the best at everything she did, and she never settled for anything less. No matter how hard things got. At the same time, life was hard for her, as it always was for a thief, a Tiefling one especially.

Her infernal blood made her the object of prejudice and distrust. Many Tieflings never managed to master their devilish or demonic urges, and were hunted like animals. He supposed that was one reason why she'd always distrusted him, or outright stated her hate.

How many times could he have been there for her, Mephasm wondered to himself. How many scars did she carry that she might not otherwise if he had been there? How much more could he have done to help her learn to control her powers, and the power that he suspected was still locked away in her? Then there was that whole matter with Black Garius and the King of Shadows.

The transformed mage had used her own blood against her, trying to turn her against her companions, torturing her when he was unable to do so. By the time he had felt her pain and acted upon it, it had been too late. Were it not for her own inner strength, the binding would have succeeded, and her companions likely would have been forced to kill her.

He had failed her as a grandfather, as any kind of blood relative. His only consolation was that while he had not been in time to help his granddaughter, he had arrived just in time to see Black Garius' soul come crashing into the Hells. A slight smirk teased at the edge of the Pit Fiend's mouth as he remembered standing over the pathetic shell of a man, now utterly powerless, and all the tortures that he had put him through.

Technically, there were other Devils that should have gotten his soul, others whose claim to him were better. None sought to dispute Mephasm's 'right' to break the man upon his personal fires and tortures. Garius' screams had been quite delightful to his ears, and he still had not tired of putting the man through a very literal hell.

As his thoughts drifted to Neeshka, and what the Drow might be doing to her now, or after they freed Demogorgon, his hands clenched into fists. He vowed that he would make the tortures that he had put Garius through, the tortures that Lolth put her damned through, seem a tender mercy compared to what he would do to House Baenre's "interrogators." They would learn true knowledge of that art. First hand.

As he thought of the myriad of ways he would extract vengeance, Mepahasm was suddenly aware that he was not alone. Surprised, he turned and looked over to the other end of the room. There was a Dwarf sitting there, still partially covered in bandages and staring at him intently. Even without looking at the Dwarf's robes or the symbol of Tyr that was around his neck, Mephasm knew who it was. Khelgar Iron-Fist. The Dwarf had spent many months traveling with his granddaughter, and had been one of her closest allies. They'd even met in person a few times.

The Pit Fiend nodded slightly to acknowledge the presence of the Dwarf, and then went back to his brooding. To his surprise, though, Khelgar didn't seem content to leave it at that.

"Lass fought well, she did. Must've taken nearly two score Drow to the pits of the Abyss before they got her," he said, looking up at the Devil. Mephasm remained silent, but cocked his head at the Dwarf. "That's the good thing about Neeshka. You can always depend on her to watch your back in a fight. Didn't use to think that way, but after Garius' little bit of witchcraft, well, she showed us just how strong she was. She was the one who killed him, you know. After Ammon Jerro read out his True Name. Smashed that flaming skull of his into a thousand pieces."

"Are you going somewhere with this?" Mephasm growled. "I know she's strong. I may not have been present in her life when she needed me, but I watched her often enough to know that she's hardy in both body and spirit."

Khelgar groaned and sighed. "My point to you, Fiend, is to have some faith in your own granddaughter. I know things are bad. I _know_what those damned Dark Elves are capable of doing to someone when they feel like having a little bit of fun. But your granddaughter took the worst that the King of Shadows and his vile slaves could throw at her, and she came up swinging. If they couldn't break her, even binding her with a geaes like they did, what hope to the Dark Elves have of breaking her?"

Mephasm opened his mouth, but no words left it. There was truth to the Dwarf's words. His encounters with Khelgar Iron-Fist had been brief, but the Dwarf was much like his kin, short, to the point, and brutally honest. Finally, he sighed, and his wings slumped slightly.

"It is that I fear her breaking under _their_ways, Dwarf," he spoke, looking up at the ceiling. "I fear what the Drow may do to her, yes. But I also fear that if Demogorgon is loosed, what their allies may do." He looked at the Dwarf, and narrowed his eyes. "You know of the Balor, Errtu?"

"Heard the name, know he's a nasty sort, even among his own kind." Khelgar nodded his head as he spoke.

"Errtu and I have waged war against each other for eons. Sometimes he manages to outmaneuver me, but most of the time I prove myself the better. The last time we engaged in combat, I destroyed most of his army and forced him from the fields of Hades, utterly humiliated. Combined with his banishment at the hands of Drizzt, a 'mere' mortal, and I worry that he will look for anything to soothe his bruised pride with."

"I think I can see where this is headed…" Khelgar muttered, frowning and stroking at his beard.

"The worst part is that Lolth may actually give Neeshka to him when she no longer has a use for her. He could drag her into his layer of the Abyss, and," the Pit Fiend paused and let out a roar of fury, the flames around his body flicking up to their full fury, causing the stone around him to start to glow. He slammed his fist into the wall, causing the stone to crack, before lowering his head. "And right now, there is _nothing_I can do to stop them. I am not…. not strong enough to challenge the Drow, even in their weakened state. I could kill many of them, hundreds perhaps, but they would wear me down and destroy my body before I could even reach her. Even if I took my troops with me, it would end in failure. I've failed her again!"

Khelgar's eyes widened as he looked at the mighty devil in front of him. Mephasm, one of the most powerful creature's to ever walk the realm of Torril. A Pit Fiend of nearly unrivaled power, seemingly trapped and berating himself for his own weakness. His own inability to protect something precious to him. The irony here was thick indeed. He honestly wasn't certain what to say that might comfort the large creature. Then he contemplated the further irony of him actually wanting to 'comfort' a Devil, and a Pit Fiend no less. He was a Monk sworn to serve Tyr as well as the Dwarven Gods, who were all the very polar opposites of the Devil that was standing not thirty feet away from him.

How very strange, these times were. How very strange indeed. Khelgar rubbed a hand along his bald head, and then looked up again.

"Suppose he does drag her off. What do you do then?" He asked.

Mephasm stared at him for a few moments, and then blinked. "I… I'm not sure."

"What do your instincts tell you that you should do? What does your mind, your heart, say that you should do?" He pressed.

The great Devil growled softly, and the flames around his body crackled and popped. "They tell me that I should gather my forces, storm his slimy home, take her back, and rip his black heart from his body before shoving it down his throat."

"That's the instinct of a parent in you, right there. You may not have always been there for Neeshka when she needed you, but you did give it a damn sight better try than most of your kin." He looked into the glowing, golden eyes of the Pit Fiend, forgetting for a moment that they were supposed to be enemies, forgetting for a moment that this was a creature born of the Hells, and everything else he knew about Mephasm. "You cannot change what you did in the past. You can change what you're going to do in the future." He rose up from his seat, and started back out of the room. "Think on that, why don't you. Look back, see what mistakes you've made, and don't do them again. Believe me, I know that better than anyone." He looked up at the Devil one last time. "I also know that it's never too late to fix things."

With that, the Dwarf left the Pit Fiend alone to his brooding. Over and over again, the mighty Mephasm contemplated the words of the Dwarven Monk. He knew some of the Dwarf's history from when he had scryed Neeshka during her travels with him, and knew what he spoke of. He had been exiled by his clan, and while it had certainly not been an easy thing, he had eventually reconciled with them, and he was once again accepted within their halls.

There was wisdom in the advice that he had given, the Devil realized. He also realized that his little rant had drawn something else as well. Peeking around the edge of the door were a few faces, half covered in otherworldly equipment. Mephasm recognized several of the smaller 'aliens' that had come to this world recently. They probably wondered what was making all the racket, and to his surprise, they entered, chatting amongst themselves in a short, gibbering language of barks and yips. They all wore different color armor, but two of them seemed to look to the one clad in white, who was larger than both of them, and seemed to give off an aura of confidence and command.

The apparent leader crossed his arms over his chest, as if he were sizing the Pit Fiend up. Mephasm said nothing, wondering if they would leave him alone if he didn't speak. It was unnerving being under their gaze. He felt like one of those captive animals on display in mortal 'zoos.' Of course, he knew better than to chalk that curiosity up to child-like ignorance or lack of knowledge as to what he was. From what information he had been able to gather regarding these things, he knew that they were dangerous, especially if they were on the warpath and operating in their typical 'pack' arrangements.

"Hard to believe what they're saying," the white one said in Faerunian Common, crossing its arms over its chest, and taking a deep, gurgling breath. Mephasm wondered what it was breathing through that thing. Whatever it was, his heat vision told him that it was quite cold. "You don't look much like her."

So the thing was curious as to how he was in fact Neeshka's Grandsire. What did it matter to this offworlder?

"What does it matter?" He put his thoughts into voice. "Whether you see a family resemblance or not is irrelevant. The fact is that I am her grandfather. Why are you so infatuated about the subject?"

"My apologies, I meant no disrespect," the thing shook its head. It was hard to tell, with the way its voice was, and the thick accent on the language, but Mephasm believed it was a male. "You should be proud of her, you know. She fights well, and learns quickly. She'd be a great soldier, even in our wars."

Something about the tone in its voice made Mephasm frown. "May I assume that last statement was meant to be a compliment?"

"Yes," the thing nodded. "She showed great potential as both a soldier and as a commander. She sought to understand everything she could. Even the soldiers involved," the thing stood a little straighter, and Mephasm found himself trying to remember the creature's name. He could swear that this white one had been at the meeting with Helm's Avatar. Something about its tone though, confused him slightly.

"What do you mean, understanding the soldiers?" the Pit Fiend cocked his head to one side.

"What I mean is that in the wars fought where my kin and I come from, we are viewed as cannon fodder and little else. Our equipment is not the best, and our casualties are always high. We die while our commanders take the credit for the work. We shed our blood, and they get all the glory. Neeshka sought to understand why, and to understand what motivated us to fight as we did in our wars." the thing paused, and blinked a few times. "She was the first to ever ask, to ever care. For what it is worth, mighty one, know that we care about our own, and we will be at your side when the time comes."

With that it adopted a stance that Mephasm believed to be a salute of some kind, and withdrew from the room. The great Devil found himself further confused. For the moment, he ignored the military implications of what the creature had said, and instead focused on the elements dealing with his daughter. Once more, pride, and the emotion he had come to understand was love filled his heart. His eyes narrowed, and began to glow dangerously.

Silently, he vowed that this would be a new beginning. He would not fail Neeshka again.

* * *

That's it for now, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you again for taking the time to read this story, and as always, take care and be safe. May the holidays treat you well, and your time spent with friends and loved ones create memories that will last a lifetime.


	37. Chapter 36: You Called Down The Thunder

Once again, my sincerest apologies for the delay in uploading this. I've been… distracted lately. Job, stress, deaths of grandparents and old highschool teachers/mentors, and the like (as well as drumming up a huge review/rant on the utterly god-awful Aliens: Colonial Marines at spacebattles). That's the short version. If you want more details, well, I'll post the full explanation and my subsequent venting after this chapter. I also want to once again thank you all for your patience in this matter.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty Six: You Called Down the Thunder…**

* * *

Soft chanting filled the Tiefling's ears as she was carried forward, bound hand and foot, towards the massive, ornate altar at the heart of House Baenre's spider temple. The time for the ritual was nigh, and for the first time since her arrival, her eyes drooped, and her fighting spirit seemed to wane. Much as she tried to avoid the thought, she was about to aid, however unwillingly, in the liberation of what was arguably the most dangerous creature in existence. She suppressed the urge to try and swear or curse them in any language that she knew. It wouldn't do any good. Triel Baenre had taken no chances, and Gromph, the archmage, had cast a spell of silence upon her. They wanted no possibility of her interfering with things in the slightest.

The chanting from the gathered Drow Clerics began to increase in volume and intensity. The moment of their triumph was approaching, and they knew it. Moments later, Triel Baenre herself stepped forward out of the crowd. Neeshka's eyes narrowed, analyzing the Dark Elven Matron as a shark would analyze its prey.

Were he hands not tied and her feet not shackled together, the Tiefling knew she could take the Elf, or at the very least, make a stab at trying to take her down. She might not succeed, but she would at least be able to ruffle Triel's feathers.

Gromph Baenre stepped out moments later, flanked by other archmagi and several Demons. They each held up artifacts and despite the distance between her and the group, Neeshka could feel the magic pulsing from them.

One by one, she watched as arcane artifacts were piled on top of the altar. Each time one was placed there, Triel, Gromph and the others would chant out their spells and bless each of the artifacts with further power. On and on it went, until a small mountain of the objects had been placed upon the altar. It seemed to take hours, but the Tiefling was never certain of the passing of time down here.

She was yanked forward, stumbling and nearly falling to the ground because she couldn't move her feet properly. The House Baenre troops, however, kept her from hitting the floor. Her wrists were stuck over the altar, and Triel produced a ceremonial dagger from inside of her robes. The grip was shaped like a spider, and four of its limbs arched forward to make the blade. There was a flash of pain, and the Tiefling watched as her palms were slashed open. Blood oozed out and trickled down onto the artifacts. She shot a hate filled glare over at Triel, and the Dark Elf seemed to notice. She returned the glare with a smirk.

She had won.

The ground started to rumble, and Neeshka was pulled back, away from the altar. The other Drow withdrew as well, and seconds later, flames skyrocketed up towards the roof of the chapel. Several Drow cried out and clutched at their faces as the heat assaulted their eyes and skin. She saw a form taking shape within the fire, incredibly large, twice the size of a man. It wasn't Demogorgon himself, but it was a Demon, and a big one.

The flames cleared around the altar, and there, hovering in the air with his mighty wings beating to keep him aloft, was a Balor. It was larger than any Balor that Neeshka had ever seen. The one that Ammon Jerro had kept in his haven seemed downright puny compared to the mammoth beast that had emerged from the Abyss. It landed heavily, and shook the ground with its steps. The air temperature around the creature rose to an uncomfortable level, nearly driving the Tiefling to her knees. All throughout the chapel, Drow, slave, and Demon alike bowed before this being.

"You have done as you were commanded. My Lord, Demogorgon, is now free," it spoke in an unearthly voice. "You have done well, Triel Baenre, my master and your goddess are both pleased. You shall be rewarded, as promised."

"My thanks to thee, mighty Errtu," Triel spoke in the Demon's native tongue, and Neeshka suddenly didn't know if it was a good or a bad thing that she could still understand the conversation. "What of thy lord?"

"He retreats to the Gaping Maw to gather his strength and marshal his armies. He will be ready to begin moving before the day's end is out," Errtu said, smiling wickedly down at the Matron. "They will launch their attacks upon the cities of the surface, and clear the way for your troops to resume their march to glory."

"Excellent," Triel replied, and then turned her attention towards the assembled crowd. "Everyone to your posts and prepare yourselves. Once our reinforcements arrive from the other cities we will march again. And this time, the Gods themselves will not be able to stop us!"

As silently as wraiths, the Drow filtered out of the massive chapel, leaving only Triel, Neeshka and her captors, and the mighty Balor. Errtu flexed his talons and seemed to stretch. The sound of popping bones echoed like a gunshot throughout the chamber.

"Enjoying being able to traverse the Prime again, my lord?" Triel inquired with a fiendish smile.

"It feels good to be loose after all the time trapped in the Abyss. I look forward to wreaking some havoc. But first, I understand you have something for me?" He looked over towards Neeshka. The girl felt a pit form in her stomach. This could not possibly be good.

"Indeed," the new Matron Mother nodded her head and gestured towards Neeshka. "Venes Baenre would be happy to show you around our interrogation chambers."

"I will oblige her. It has been centuries since I have had the luxury of observing your people's attempts at information extraction. I would watch her first, before trying my hand at it." Errtu bared his fangs menacingly as he crossed his arms over his chest. His glowing, hellfire eyes settled upon the Tiefling once more, and the Demon's wicked mind was filled with anticipation.

He was going to enjoy every moment of this.

* * *

The Drow Ranger sighed as he leaned back.

Three days had passed since the Lord's Alliance, the Dwarven Clans, and the other members of the united people of Faerun had learned of Demogorgon's pending release. That release would happen soon, everyone knew. And they knew that there was nothing that could be done to stop it at the moment. They were not yet readied and properly geared up. Despite their best efforts, there would be a necessary defensive action on the part of the free people of Faerun.

Drizzt's thoughts drifted to the events of the past couple of days, one in particular that stood out in his mind.

* * *

He had been standing near Dove Falconhand when it had happened. The young woman had found herself thrust into the role of leadership of Silverymoon. She was sitting at a table within one of the great halls of the Dwarven stronghold, flanked by two other guards, while she discussed defensive measures with the likes of Lord Nasher, Commander Keyes, and several other members of the Lord's Alliance. Even the likes of Regis and Casius of Ten Towns had been present, for this matter was one that concerned them all.

While none could doubt that it was necessary to mount an assault on the Drow's heart in Menzoberranzan, it had been concluded that the Demonic allies the Drow had made were likely to mount their own offensives ahead of the main Dark Elven army in order to soften everything up before the main army arrived, in order to lessen the Dark Elves' already high losses. It was, as Commander Keyes had pointed out, the logical thing to do, what most of the UNSC's Generals would have done under similar circumstances. As such, every city from Ten Towns to Calimport was expected to have to repel attackers to a degree.

As they were discussing what to do about Waterdeep, Helm's Avatar had appeared before them.

"My apologies for the disturbances," he said with a courteous salute towards the gathered nobles. "Eliastree and I have managed to secure additional forces that will aid in the offensive arm of your missions. They are elite troops who know Menzoberranzan like the backs of their hands. I would suggest though, that you keep your hands off your weapons."

Commander Keyes gave the Avatar a strange look, but nodded. Those carrying blades moved their hands a little further away from the grips, those with firearms clicked on their safeties, while the men and women with bows and arrows pointed them towards the ground. Normally such heavy armament during a war council would be unusual, but Commander Keyes was concerned about the possibility of the Dark Elves somehow breaking through the wards. Such things had been done in the past, after all.

The Avatar had nodded, and then there was a flash, and the far side of the hall, more than two hundred Dark Elves had suddenly appeared. Helm held up his hands as the grips on the weapons tightened, and a few swords came halfway out of their scabbards. The Ranger himself, however, had been the first one to find his voice. He had recognized the Dark Elf at the head of the formation, and through him, who the rest were.

"Jarlaxle," the words leapt from his mouth, and his eyes narrowed. He looked over to Helm. "Why is Bregan D'aerthe here?"

"We are mercenaries, Drizzt who was of Do'Urden," Jarlaxle said, sweeping his plumed hat off his head and taking a bow. "Mercenaries work for those who are willing to pay them, and the pockets of Helm and Eilistraee are deep indeed," but there was something behind the eyes of the Mercenary Captain, something that didn't seem proper.

"You'll pardon me if I'm reluctant to take that at face value," Commander Keyes spoke up, her hand resting on the grip of a carbine that was sitting on the table by her seat. Her eyes looked to the armored Avatar. "What are you offering them?"

"Something greater than material wealth, Commander," Helm's voice resonated throughout the chamber. "In exchange for the aid of Bregan D'aerthe in your assault, I have promised to retrieve something for the Captain when I take my fight to Lolth."

"And that would be?" Drizzt pressed. He knew the Mercenary Captain from a few run-ins that they'd had before he'd fled Menzoberranzan. Jarlaxle wasn't evil by most Dark Elven standards. He was, however, extremely opportunistic, and Drizzt trusted him about as far as he could throw him. His loyalty did not extend far beyond his mercenaries.

"Nearly half of my troops fell fighting your defenders as we tried in vain to complete our objectives," Jarlaxle spoke up, walking towards the table. Drizzt noticed the usual swagger was gone from his walk, which was again odd. What had gotten to the Captain? "You know what happens to those who die as failures among our people."

Drizzt winced at the realization. He believed that he was starting to realize what Helm and Eilistraee had offered to the leader of Bregan D'aerthe in order to enlist him. If it was what he thought, it was a tempting prize indeed.

"Ah, I see you have begun to figure it out," the bald Drow said as he walked up next to them. "The souls of the men and women who have fallen under my command are to be freed in exchange for our aid."

Around the table, eyes bulged and jaws dropped open. Drizzt knew why. Assaulting another deity's plane of existence for the purpose of liberating or stealing souls had been done before, but they were rare occurrences indeed. The risk was high, and there were few willing to go to those risks for the apparent pittance that could be garnered in return. It was normally only done when the souls in question were those of powerful clerics or magi that were willing to defect away from their current position, or if a captured soul was to be ransomed for some powerful artifact.

Jarlaxle had been bought at a very high price.

"Touching as your loyalty is, I would prefer more concrete assurances," Commander Keyes said with a frown. "Your kind does not exactly have the best reputations for trustworthiness."

"In that you are correct, madam," Jarlaxle said with a nod of his head. "I can only say that we are not like most of our people. Still, if you wish to bind us with a Geaes, to where we cannot turn upon you, we will willingly submit."

"I would appreciate such cooperation," she said, turning her eyes to Dove and Lord Nasher. The two of them had nodded their heads and sent for their mages.

As messengers for the Many Stared Cloaks and Silverymoon Magi had departed, Drizzt had glanced once more over the assembled members of Bregan D'aerthe, and to his immense surprise, had found a familiar face: Dinin, his brother.

It had taken every ounce of willpower in that moment not to run at his brother and strike him down. He had held himself in check, however, until the arcane ceremony had been completed, and then had withdrawn from the meeting, before his instincts had gotten the better of him. First Briza, now his elder brother. How many more members of his wretched family were still alive?

Drizzt Do'Urden rubbed his chin as he dwelled on the manner in which the dice had fallen. The arrival of Jarlaxle, and the arrival of his elder brother, no less, was something that he had not expected. Then again, over the past half year, there was very little that had transpired that could truly be called "expected," the Ranger thought to himself. At the current moment, he was in one of the open-air marketplaces of the Undercity, or rather, he was in what would have been an open-air market in times past. Right now it was serving as a weapons cache and resource dump. The UNSC troops and their dropships were running round the clock, ferrying what excess weapons had been produced in the "machine shop" of their spelljammer to the cities of the Lord's Alliance and the Sword Coast. Amn, Baldur's Gate, Neverwinter, Waterdeep, the Moonshale Isles, all of them were expected to come under heavy assault. The Elven kingdoms and eastern empires were expected to face a similar attack, but fewer supplies had been ferried that way.

Offers had been made, but many of the Elf cities put more stock and faith in their own magical talents than the mundane weaponry of the UNSC and Neo-Covenant. Even Thay had been approached and offered aid, but while they thanked the Offworlders for their warning, they had outright refused any form of help.

Drizzt frowned as he thought of what might happen if the Demons did invade the Red Wizards' Empire. They were powerful, but against the limitless numbers of the Abyss, they were sure to fall. Part of him abhorred such a loss of life, even if it was Thayan life, but the dark side of him, the Hunter, was swift to point out that Thay had long been an enemy of the free people of Torril, and few would mourn if their desert cities were wiped from the face of the world.

His main concern was the Elvin Kingdoms. His relationship with his surface brothers and sisters had always been cool and tense. Few trusted the renegade Dark Elf, and Drizzt could hardly blame them. Of all the species that the Drow wished to wipe from the worlds, the Elves of the surface held a special place. Raids to the surface had in times past purged whole towns, villages, and bloodlines from existence; all the more reason for him to be concerned about what was going to transpire soon. The Dark Elves would throw everything they had at their hated surface cousins, probably focusing on Cormathor and its large, forested city-states.

The good news though, was that Correlon apparently anticipated such an action, and like the cities of the Sword Coast, most of the Elven military population was gathering at these centers and preparing for the onslaught to come. Bahamut had also pledged a number of his most powerful followers to aid in the defense of the ancient Elven homeland. Metallic Dragon and Elf would once more stand allied against a common foe. Human and Dwarf would as well, Gnomes of both the Surface and the Underdark would stand arm in arm, readying themselves for a war that would surely be the war to end all wars.

"Lost in your thoughts again, I see. The time on the surface has changed you little, brother."

Drizzt's hands instinctively went to his scimitars as he whirled to face the sound of the voice, and saw that Dinin was a few feet away from him. The Ranger cursed himself for his carelessness. Dinin might have been able to slip a blade in his back if he had been any more unawares. Such had been the fate of Nailfen, the eldest Do'Urden male. Dinin had unwittingly saved Drizzt's life, slaying the first born son on the night of his birth, saving him from being sacrificed to Lolth.

The Hunter within him awoke once more, and objected fiercely to the proximity of the elder Do'Urden sibling. Binding geaes or no, it had not forgotten how Dinin had hunted them throughout the Underdark, baying after them like a bloodhound. The Dark Elf checked the urge to draw his blades and begin to defend himself, but he kept his hands on the hilts as he stared into his brother's crimson eyes.

"What is it, Dinin?" He asked, unable to stop himself from searching for any sign of impending attack from his elder sibling.

"Merely contemplating the irony of the situation, Second Boy," he said with a smirk, leaning back against the carved stone of a Dwarven building.

Drizzt's eyes narrowed at the use of the title. It was utterly pointless as far as the Ranger knew. House Do'Urden had been destroyed. It no longer existed. Indeed, as far as Menzoberranzan and the Dark Elves as a whole were concerned, it had never existed in the first place. They were Drizzt and Dinin the Rogues, not Second Boy and Elder Boy of the Eighth House.

"What irony is that?" Drizzt asked, subtly adjusting his stance to that of a combat one, glad for a moment that he was still wearing the UNSC Marine armor that he'd been issued during the battle for the Hall.

"You and I, of course," Dinin replied, throwing his head back and laughing, actually taking his eyes off of his younger brother for a second. Drizzt was surprised. Such a move was an act of trust among the Dark Elves. Or was it a clever ploy, designed to lure him into a false sense of security? Dinin had ever been good at finding loopholes in the arcane. "Think about it, my sibling, we are both outcasts, and we have been enemies for most of our lives. But now, after the most crushing defeat in the history of our people, we are going to be fighting alongside each other as allies. And what is more, we shall both battle against the very city we were born in."

Drizzt remained silent, but he had to admit that fate seemed to have a funny sense of humor these days.

"I know you didn't come here to talk about the fickleness of fate, brother," he spat the word like it was a poison, "why have you really sought me out?"

"Believe it or not, to inquire about our sisters," Dinin crossed his arms over his chest, the links of his armor tinkling softly as he did so. "I know that you killed Briza, or at least contributed heavily to her demise, but I was wondering if you knew anything of Veirna or Maya."

"I assumed that they would have been scooped up by Baenre as well. Our family was gifted before its destruction. I cannot imagine that the old Matron would have turned down the opportunity to add three more High Priestesses to her arsenal."

"I do not believe so. At the very least, I have never seen them under House Baenre's banners," Dinin mused, placing a finger against his chin and stroking his jaw. "Briza was often out in the open, acting as an enforcer of Lolth's will, the same could not be said of the others. Yet I know they were not slain in the destruction of our house."

"House Baenre's influence extends beyond Menzoberranzan. All the cities of the Drow have some of their agents within it. Perhaps that was there fate," Drizzt shrugged. "I do not understand why you are so concerned. I can't find it in me to believe you are the sentimental type."

"You wound me, brother," Dinin sneered, and took a mocking bow. "I care only for the fact that we may eventually have to face them in battle. Both of them were skilled in the Art, and in these desperate times, it is possible that Lolth will throw every ounce of available power into her Clerics. I do not relish the thought of facing them in battle, especially given that they're going to harbor a much greater hatred of us than even a normal Cleric will."

"This I already know," Drizzt narrowed his violet gaze at his sibling. "What is your point?"

"Do you have the stomach to kill another member of our family? You have killed your own father, our mother, and our eldest sibling, true enough," it took every ounce of self-control that Drizzt had not to take his scimitars and smash their butt ends into his sibling's temple at the statement that he had killed his father, "but those were indirect deaths, or done in self-defense. If our sisters are present at the battle for Menzoberranzan, they will try to stop us, and I want to know that I can rely on you to remove them as threats if you possibly can."

"You don't have to worry," Drizzt replied, trying to keep his voice level and civil. "I know well the ways of killing other Drow. Our people, and Lolth's ways, have forced me to become intimately familiar with it."

"Good." Dinin remarked. "I will leave you to your thoughts again, Second Boy."

Laughing once again, the other Dark Elf turned around and walked off, leaving his younger brother to glare at him as he walked away.

"I see that siblings are not always a blessing," he heard another voice, and turned once more.

Dove Falconhand was standing there, her arms crossed over her chest and a look of distaste upon her visage.

"No, there are times when they are a curse," Drizzt said, shaking his head, and then letting out a deep breath, trying to exhale the pent up stress and rage that was inside of his chest, clawing at his heart like a blood mad predator. "I wish at times that I had had a sibling like-" he cut himself off, and cursed himself for his foolishness. Lady Alustriel had scarcely been buried and her funeral rites seen to. How careless of him to mention her!

Dove could see the pain that suddenly manifested on the Dark Elf's face, and reached out to take his arm. "You meant no harm with your words. I take comfort in them," she spoke softly. "I mourn for my sister's loss, and I miss her terribly, as you have confessed that you miss your father." She paused, and looked up into his eyes. "But as you do, I shall not remember her death. I shall remember her life, and all that she taught me, as your father taught you. I will remember how she protected me, as your father tried to protect and shield you from the horrors of your people. I will honor that life, by trying to live not only as she would have me, but as I would have myself. She died to protect our freedom and our lives, as your father died to protect yours." Drizzt thought he saw a tear glisten in one of her eyes as she spoke. "Do not waste that precious time that they bought for us with too much sadness and darkness, for there are enough of those things in this world. To do so would be to waste their sacrifice."

Drizzt nodded his head in understanding. The other Ranger spoke truly. What was more, she would see her sister again, as he would his father, in the next life, if not this one.

"Come," she said, pulling him towards the stairs that led to the upper levels of the Hall. "It is nearly time for the briefing."

* * *

Commander Keyes sighed and rubbed her forehead. The world seemed to have turned upside down, more so than usual around this place. Her mind drifted to Jarlaxle and his troops again. Helm had vouched for the soldiers, claiming that while they had fought against them during the battle for Mithril Hall, that they had since forsaken Lolth and her dark ways. The Commander was still suspicious of this Jarlaxle and his comrades in arms, but for the plan that Cortana was drafting up, they would be a necessary element for several stages.

The UNSC officer sighed to herself as she stood up from her seat. It was nearly time for her to call them all to the command room to begin briefing them on the plan that she, Helm, and Cortana had come up with. That nervous twinge that she always felt before a mission began started up in the back of her skull. The young officer ignored it however, and pressed on, moving through the room she was in and heading out into the tunnels of Mithril Hall.

The place was bursting with activity. The Dwarves and their allies had hardly been content to rest upon their laurels once they had learned that Demogorgon was going to be marshaling an army, and the Drow quite possibly returning for a second round. There were concerns that the Demon Prince might also attempt to strike at the cities on the surface, taking advantage of the fewer numbers of troops that would be present due to the activity at the Hall, and citizens were already being evacuated from Neverwinter and Waterdeep. Some of the surface Elves were also evacuating their ancient homes, but the information that the commander had received indicated that most of them were likely to remain where they were and try to weather an potential storm that might be thrown at them. Combined with their reluctance to accept any aid beyond a few HPMG units and a handful of small arms and she worried what fate might await them if the Demons decided to attack en mass.

There was only so much time she could afford to devote to thinking about the Elves, though. Her priority would be to oversee the strike to the heart of the enemy. If they could tear that out, they could stop this attack before it could gather enough momentum to really cause damage. If they couldn't, it was quite possible that millions could lose their lives trying to repel the forces of the Underdark and the Abyss… if they could be repelled at all.

The Commander almost laughed to herself as she thought about all that had transpired since she had arrived, indeed, since she had first signed up at the academy. Her thoughts drifted to her now dead father and the smile on his face when he'd watched her graduate, and then when she'd obtained her first command.

If anyone had said to her that she would one day find herself literally fighting creatures of mythology and planning the destruction of a civilization dedicated to an evil, insane Elven Goddess, and with the aid of the very people who not even a year previously had been trying to wage a genocidal war against Humanity itself she'd have wondered if they'd gotten their hands on some bad raver drugs. Yet here she was. She couldn't say that her training had truly prepared her for this situation, but she seemed to have done well enough so far. Her father had always insisted that she be able to think on her feet, and her training in the officer corps had only improved what he had started.

She suspected that in a few hours, it was going to be put to the ultimate test. She would be in the thick of a combat zone that could literally open up onto 'Hell's' front door at a moment's notice. She would be fighting on the home turf of an enemy that had managed to survive for thousands of years in one of the most hostile environments imaginable. The myth of Drow invincibility may have been shattered, and perhaps more than a million of them killed, but there were many more still capable of fighting, and now there would be more Demons than ever in the mix. There was no way-even with all of their advanced weaponry-that they would walk away from this battle unblooded.

But beating the odds was in her blood. Her father had beaten the odds countless times. He had beaten them when he'd managed to avoid being discharged due to a slipspace accident that had left a dozen officers dead. He'd beaten them again at the first and second battles of Sigma Octanus, at Reach, and for a time, even beaten them at Installation-04.

Commander Miranda Keyes, at that moment and at that time, prayed that she would live up to her legacy. She would need ever ounce of her command skills, combat knowledge, and luck, if she was going to pull this mission off.

She soon arrived at the room, and nodded as she gazed around it. It was shaped somewhat liked an amphitheater, with plenty of seating for everyone who would be present. The holotanks and necessary electronics were ready, as were one other thing: Cortana's newest little toys. The construct had had to use all of her newfound arcane knowledge to craft these things, but Keyes suspected that it would be worth it.

Both of the Golems were molded from spare armor and mechanical parts that had been lying around in the motor pool of the _Forward Unto Dawn_, and bore resemblance to the old Mark I and Mark II power suits that the military had experimented with nearly a half century ago. Standing nearly three meters tall, weighing the better part of a ton, and covered with glowing runes, they were a sight to behold, and Keyes suspected they would be quite intimidating to anyone who had never beheld one of those suits before. While there were some passive arcane defenses and a handful of offensive capabilities, the true power of the Golems lay in the UNSC firepower that had been bolted onto them. The powered, four fingered, claws that made up each hand could crush stone and steel like it was paper, and onto the left forearm of each one was a thirty-millimeter cannon. The cannon sported self-targeting IR sensors, and a few other aiming devices. For shorter ranged combat, and psychological warfare purposes, both forearms had a thermite-napalm flamethrower attached.

The Dark Elves had learned the horror of pressurized thermite during the Battle of Mithril Hall. Now they would see their own city burn before it.

For really heavy duty work, Cortana had also managed to bolt on a Gauss Canon, which was attached to the left arm of the Golems. Though the ammunition pack for each of those weapons was limited to some thirty rounds, the sheer psychological impact of the powerful anti-material weapons would hopefully make them a potent force multiplier for the Golems. She suspected it would also be handy if any Balors decided to make their presence known. Topping it off was an automated grenade launcher that had been attached to the right shoulder, capable of launching a myriad of explosives, from incendiaries, frags, smoke and flash-bangs.

When she was done admiring the A.I.'s handiwork, she went to go take a closer look at the projectors, and make certain all the last details were ready and everything in order for what was to come.

The soldiers filtered in one by one, or in small groups. However, everyone was in place by thirteen hundred hours. Commander Keyes looked around and once again marveled at the sheer variety of people before her. There were Dwarves, Elves, Elites, Grunts, and Hunters as before. But now the assortment of soldiers and magi were joined by new troops: The Dark Elves of Bregan D'earth, and an agent of the Hells. Jarlalxle Baenre, Dinin Do'Urden, and Mephasm joined the likes of Lord Nasher, Dove Falconhand, and Orna Fulsamee.

The UNSC Commander sighed once more, and called everyone to order, right on time. She activated the hologram generators that filled the room, and typed in the command files. Moments later, a series of detailed three dimensional maps began to fill the room. There were several, but three in particular stood out to those who knew them: Menzoberranzan, the Tier Breche academies where the next generations of Dark Elven elite were trained, and House Baenre. Jarlaxle's magi had pulled the images straight from his mind and painted them onto parchments. Cortana had scanned them and the rest was history.

Above the maps was a holographic message in three languages: For Eyes Only. Operation Overlord.

"Everyone present and accounted for?" she inquired.

"All except for the Master Chief," Orna spoke up from his seat on the left side of the room.

"The Master Chief and Cortana will be joining us in a few minutes," Commander Keyes said, assuming a parade rest stance for a few moments. She took a breath, and launched into the briefing. "As you all know, the Dark Elves are regrouping and have already begun massing for their second assault on the surface. This time they will be aided by the forces of Demogorgon and quite possibly the Demon Prince himself, once he has finished recuperating from his imprisonment." She looked around to everyone who was present, and for a moment, wondered whom she might be speaking to for the last time. There was indeed a chance that this might be the last time she spoke to any of them like this. The mission they were about to do could very well wind up being their last.

"The leaders of the Lords' Alliance, Clans Battle-Hammer and Ironfist, and the Neo-Covenant commanders have conferred and pooled what we know about our enemies. It has thus been concluded that we cannot afford to limit ourselves to a simple defensive battle once again. Our enemy may well be assaulting us with more troops than we have weapons to kill them with." She started to move over towards the Menzoberranzan hologram. "As such, while the troops of the Lords' Alliance mass and prepare to defend their cities, an elite strike force will assault Menzoberranzan and attempt to destroy what is left of the Dark Elves' command and control capabilities. Other assaults will simultaneously be made against other enemy strong points, but those will not concern us. You are here because you are going to be participating in these raids, and you will all have roles to play in the battle."

She looked around once more, trying to draw the attention of every soldier in the room to her. "Should we succeed, we may very well break the Dark Elves as a power for millennia to come, and forever change the course of history on this world." She reached down and picked up a remote, pressing a button on it. Graphs and highlights appeared on the map of Menzoberranzan, reading out information on suspected troop concentrations and patrol routes.

"There will be five major elements to this assault force. The first is the command group, designation Omaha. The four other elements are codenamed Utah, Gold, Juno, and Sword. You will be responsible for accomplishing most of the objects that we've set for ourselves…"

The briefing went on for half an hour without incident. It wasn't until the next task force was named that people started getting restless and questions asked.

She pressed the advance button on her remote; House Baenre and Tier Breche disappeared from their holoprojectors, and were replaced by two enlarged sectors of the city itself. They were heavy residential areas, and it was here that their second mission would occur. Commander Keyes chewed on her lip slightly. If the first operation seemed to be a suicide mission, then this mission went passed that and plowed straight into the realm of the surreal.

Words flashed once again for the eyes of all to see: Operation Double Thunder.

"Some of you are probably still wondering why you are here," she looked over to Bruenor and the elite soldiers of the two Dwarven Clans, some of the Knights of Silverymoon, and other such soldiers of the Lord's Alliance. "Your curiosity is warranted. This mission comes as a personal request from Helm himself, as well as the Goddess Eilistraee. While our troops tie up the Dark Elven military and try to wipe their army from the face of this planet, you will teleport into the residential areas of Menzoberranzan, and with the aid of Bregan D'aerthe and Lord's Alliance Magi, and begin trying to… contain, some of the children of the citizenry." The room grew stiffly silent. Commander Keyes did not blame them in that silence. Their faces mirrored her own when Helm's Avatar had informed her of his intentions to carry this out.

They wanted to know the why of this request. She wasn't certain if this was such a good idea, but the troops before her needed to know why they would be risking life and limb.

"They believe that it is possible to save the Drow from themselves, and to free them from Lolth's control. To break the cycle of damnation that holds them in Lolth's thrall, however, requires the complete and total dismantlement of Dark Elven civilization and their current culture up to a certain point. What you are going to be tasked with doing is trying to save the younger children who have not yet been indoctrinated into Lolth's ways." Quiet murmurs sprung up among the gathered troops, whispers that the Commander couldn't quite hear.

She wondered what they might have been about. She was asking them, in no uncertain terms, to forcibly kidnap hundreds of young children and rip them away from their parents. The alternative, however, was thermonuclear annihilation. Surely this had to be better than that? Or was that her subconscious trying to soothe her weary mind, trying to justify this by telling her that it was a lesser evil that might actually result in some good coming from this whole sordid mess?

She put her thoughts to voice. "I understand that this may strike some of you as strange, or perhaps even wrong. I cannot say I blame you. The alternative, however, is for them to all die when our Havoks go off. On the larger picture, there is also the possibility that unless this cycle is broken, that the Drow will eventually be destroyed entirely, either by themselves, or by some other power." She paused, and let that sink in. "This is our chance to make a difference and try to do something other than just make stuff blow up."

She wasn't certain if she had won anyone over, or made this operation any less uncomfortable for the troops involved, but it was the best she could offer. She clasped her hands behind her back once again and resumed the briefing.

"Once you manage to gather your targets, the magi with you will teleport them out to a secured location within Mithril Hall. You're to keep working until the last possible second. We want to save everyone that we can." She looked out across the gathered soldiers yet again. "Any questions?"

Bruenor raised his hand. "What age group are we talking about here?"

"Helm and Eilistraee have concluded unfortunately, that after about age ten, the ways of Lolth will have too firm a hold upon them. Anyone older than that…" she trailed off. The Dwarven King nodded his head soberly.

Other questions were asked and answered. Expected target density? Low. How to deal with resisting parents? Preferably nonleathal… not that it would make much of a difference in the long run. Would the children be subdued prior to transport? Yes.

Keyes almost felt exhausted by the time it was all over with, and there were elements of this operation she had to admit still felt off. But the briefing was nearly over. Another hand went up, this one belonging to Drizzt.

"What is to stop Lolth herself from trying to hamper our progress?" the Ranger inquired.

"Helm and Moradin, are going to personally mount and assault upon her realm of the Abyss and keep her eyes elsewhere, while Eiliastree and her forces attempt to save some of the souls of the Bregan D'earthe soldiers, the price of their services in this battle." Keyes said. "This is the third and final operation going on. You will not have to concern yourself with it, however. It's not like we could do much anyway as far as support is concern. We are, however, contributing one major element to the operation, which will be with us shortly."

"Actually, it is here now."

Everyone looked over to the entrance of the command room. One of Helm's Avatars was present, and as it strode forward, Keyes could see that there was something behind it. A smile teased at the edges of her face. This was the final morale-raising element that she needed. And it was right on schedule.

"We apologize for the delay," the voice was Cortana's. "Took a little longer for the flash training and everything to settle in properly. We're good to go now."

One could hear a pin drop in the room as the thing behind Helm moved forward. Made of glistening black metal, highlighted by small bits of grey and blue, looking almost like a gemstone with all the sharp angles in it, and bristling with weaponry, was Didact's old Class Twenty combat exoskeleton. It descended the stairs with almost unnatural grace, and looked to be every part the walking weapon that it was. Those who had seen it before, however, noticed something different about the armor. Adorned on the shoulders of the suit was the sigil of Helm: an armored gauntlet with an unblinking, lidless eye. Even those marveling at the plates, the weapon hardpoints, or the thrusters on the back and legs of the power armor noticed that symbol, and whispered inquiries burst out as the suit continued to walk forward. It came to a stop in front of the Commander, and she marveled at the contrast that it presented, moving so easily when it looked to be more like a walking weapons platform than anything else. She stared into the "visor" as the Telo energy rifle it carried was shifted to the left hand and placed against the shoulder, while the right came up to salute her.

"Commander Keyes, Spartan-117 and A.I. Construct CTN 0452-9 reporting for duty ma'am."

The hushed whispers cut off in an instant, and the silence within the chamber was broken only by the sound of breathing as Commander Miranda Keyes returned the salute.

"You understand the nature of your assignment?" she asked, cocking her head to the side slightly.

"Affirmative." Both cyborg and construct said without hesitation.

"Then be prepared to move out with the rest of the operation," she said. Then she turned to face the rest of the gathered troops. "You have approximately eight hours to make preparations before we begin. I don't care how you spend them, but I want everyone sober, rested, and ready to go. No exceptions. No excuses. Am I understood?"

Everyone nodded their heads, and slowly began to filter out of the room, leaving the Golems, Commander Keyes, and the Master Chief alone in the room. All eyes were upon the gleaming Forerunner power armor, and Keyes could hear whispering, indistinct, from the crowd. Judging by the individuals doing it, such as Drizzt, Bruenor, and some of the high ranking Elites, she suspected it dealt with the nature of the suit itself. They had been with Helm when he had "shown" the armors in action, and knew precisely what they were capable of. No matter how bad or ugly things might wind up getting on the ground, there was certainly comfort that could be taken to know that somewhere, that kind of firepower was on their side.

"I think you gave them a much needed boost," Keyes put a voice to her thoughts, turning to face the Master Chief again. "Are you certain that you're up to this?" she asked again, this time away from the ears of others.

"Yes ma'am. Shift into the Abyss, wipe out as many of the Demons as we can, and try and draw Demogorgon out of hiding," Cortana said over the suit's speakers.

"And if that fails, pursue and attempt to destroy." The Spartan finished for her.

Keyes clasped her hands behind her back, and stared up into that visor again, gazing at her own reflection. Helm had spent nearly every waking moment since he had informed them of the 'complication' following the Battle for Mithril Hall training the Spartan in how to use the weapon systems and suit functions. It seemed as though the Master Chief was a swift learner (though she wondered how much had been transmitted directly into his brain), but what the duo would be up against was an opponent of literally biblical proportions.

"Even if we don't succeed in destroying Demogorgon himself, we just have to cripple his operations," the Master Chief spoke up, as if sensing the Commander's doubt. "He's engaged in a perpetual war against the Devils and a half dozen other powers, while the very power structure that he's a part of is waiting for the slightest sign of a slip up or crack. He can only afford to devote so many of his troops to this battle, especially if Overlord succeeds in wiping out the second Drow army." The Spartan tapped his index finger against the side of the trigger guard on the Telo rifle that he was carrying.

"And if you can't stop him?" Keyes inquired.

"We bloody his nose, wound his pride, and keep him too occupied on sating his megalomania to think straight," Cortana spoke up and Keyes thought she noticed a slight, subtle distortion to the A.I.'s voice, "then we lead him on a merry chase through all the slime pits and hellholes the Abyss has to offer. Meanwhile, Helm and the Dwarven Gods keep Lolth occupied and clueless as to what's about to hit most of her remaining military forces."

If everything went to plan, Keyes thought. Of course, it wouldn't, they never did. It was time to see if they could adapt as well on offense as they could on defense.

"Well, in case I don't get a chance to say it later, good luck and Godspeed," the Commander said, saluting the pair once more. They returned the gesture, and she felt the smile return to her face once again. "Whatever happens, good or bad, I want you two to know that serving with you has been an honor."

"Likewise, ma'am." the Master Chief's voice sounded oddly inhuman coming from within the power armor.

"Dismissed, you two. Make whatever preparations you need." Keyes said, nodding to them before turning back around to look at the displays coming out of the hologenerators.

* * *

As he turned and walked away from his commanding officer, the Master Chief's mind began to systematically run back through the long training sessions that he'd held with Helm to be able to use the new power armor that he was wearing. The time manipulation devices on the suit had proven useful for extending the training period to allow for more hands-on preparation.

Flash training and muscle programming were good things, but the cyborg still preferred the real deal.

It still felt strange though, to be walking around in this suit. It was not that the Spartan was uncomfortable in this device, or that it felt awkward. Indeed, far from it, the suit acted like it was merely an extension of his body. Thoughts were actions within this alien shell, a command one, single fluid chain of events. Further, Helm had made modifications to the armor over the ages, as he learned more about the arcane, specifically with defenses to the mind. There had also been additional weapon systems hooked up to the exoskeleton, which left the Spartan to wonder if the God had not contemplated challenging the great Demon Prince at some point in time himself. This was especially given that much of the time he had spent in virtual combat against a computer generated Demogorgon. Helm wanted him and Cortana to be as familiarized as possible with the past tactics of the Demon Prince, so that they might better anticipate future tactics and stratagems.

And then there was the power, the sheer, raw, _power_ that the Spartan suddenly found himself in control of. With but a thought, he could wipe an army from the face of this world. Whole nations could crumble before this power armor. He suspected he could even be a threat to Covenant fleets and battle-stations within this device, due to its ability to manipulate space and time. His thoughts went to his fellow Spartans, now dead, and to the war itself. If he'd had this armor then, if his brothers and sisters had had this equipment, how much different might things have been? How many worlds could they have saved, how many lives would not have been lost?

And then there was Neeshka. Right now, the Master Chief wanted to storm down into the Dark Elven city, crush their paltry defenses, and get his sister in arms out of that hellhole. But he could not. That job was for others, and he would have to trust that Sergeant Johnson, Mephasm, and Orna would put as much effort into saving her as he would. His goal was to keep Demogorgon tied up and unable to manifest upon the Prime Material Plane. All data indicated that was the Demon Prince's intention, and if he did cities, nations, and empires would turn to dust and graveyards before him. There was no mortal force on all of Faerun that could face the Demon Prince. No Elf, no Dwarf, no Human, no Dragon, no Wizard or Sorcerer could stand against him. He was a primal force of nature more than a living entity, and Helm had warned that if Demogorgon made his way to the front lines in this fight, that to push him back into the Gaping Maw might literally cost millions of lives, if such an event was even possible.

A small number, compared to Humanities losses in the war with the Covenant, and absolutely paltry compared to the untold quintillions that had died during the war between Flood and Forerunner. But the situation here was different. Torril's peoples had no space colonies, no ships to put their civilians on and evacuate them from the planet. If their defenders were overrun, they would die, and there were several species living here that did not have that number of people to lose.

It was quite possible that this day would see entire sentient races driven to extinction.

It was his job, and Cortana's job, to prevent that from happening. They were to keep this monster away from the cities and the towns. Their job was to stop genocide, and put fear into the heart of Evil itself. His foe was like an infection, stirring up and festering the hearts of men and nations.

It was, he realized, much like the Flood itself. Demogorgon, and the Demons themselves, sought to consume the rest of reality, and to destroy what they could not subdue. Like the Flood, their foe today was a corrupting disease, a cancer that had to be expunged. The Master Chief's eyes narrowed behind the multitude of HUD readouts in front of him. He would not fail. He could not, or millions would pay the price. Nor, as Mendicant Bias once said, was this a fight that could be won by half measures. When the battle was joined, he would hold nothing back, and give no quarter. He would engage the Demon Prince with the intention of destroying him and bring every last weapon system this armor suit had to bear.

It was a battle that the Master Chief felt, might possibly be the hardest that he had ever fought, or would ever fight.

* * *

-00-

* * *

Okay. For those of you who have kept reading to find out what's been bothering me so much these past few months, I shall say it plain and clear. I ask you to please forgive me if this comes off as a pedantry filled rant/author note here. I've just got to get this out of my system.

I finally had the chance to finish up Spartan Ops on Halo 4… and… well… oh, to heck with it, I can't put it any more eloquently. It freaking sucked!

Those who know me better as Aratech of Spacebattles are likely familiar with the massive review that I posted two years ago on Halo: Reach, where I ruthlessly tore into its single-player campaign. I ranted about the fact that the UNSC and Covenant had both been reduced to drooling morons in this game ("Yes, we shall pull back all our observation and recon teams from the enemy staging area despite the fact that the Covenant have proven the ability to block our high tech observation tools, thereby ensuring that our completely unsupported armored charge in the morning will go screaming into battle with no idea what's waiting for them and as a result of this the troops are more or less slaughtered to the last man."), how Noble Team came off as a special forces team where the writers forgot that special meant elite rather than "special needs" and made it a deliberate point to kill off the team members in increasingly contrived manners (like the supposedly smartest member of Noble forgetting to turn her bloody shields on) and filled with massive plot holes and wallbangers (Like the second most heavily defended planet in the UNSC (it's premier military world no-less!) apparently not having any ground-side nuclear weaponry, despite belonging to an organization that routinely passes out 30 megaton party favors to its black ops teams). A story which, overall, utterly tarnished much of the Halo universe while adding only a single positive thing to the lore (fare thee well, Jorge, you were far too good for this piece of crap).

For the longest time, I was convinced that the Halo franchise would just limp along and finally peter out. Then came Halo 4. For a time, I actually felt a bit of hope playing it. The campaign wasn't perfect, not by any means (I've come to hate how the Promethean Knights were wasted, taking what could have been an interesting and innovative enemy, with entirely new tactics and weaponry, and basically turning them into slightly more powerful elites with what are in essence reskinned UNSC weaponry and a single extra gimmick), but I felt it was a hell of a lot better than the Reach storyline. Cortana's death could have been handled better, I felt, but I was glad they touched on a moment that those of us who have been following the expanded universe from the beginning knew has been coming ever since Fall of Reach came out.

Then came Spartan Ops. Clearly, this is where Reach's storywriters were relegated to. The UNSC has been reduced to drooling idiots once again (Oh, we're not going to station any guards around this super-potent, unknown Forerunner artifact, even though it just freaking _ate_ our head scientist and nearly destroyed our supership. Nope, not even a sign saying "Please Refrain from Touching the Plot Coupon", and we're not going to have any internal defensive mechanisms to protect our super-ship, and in fact we'll keep the air vents large enough that a fully armored Elite can just casually waltz through them with his squad. We can somehow paint a single Jackal sniper from freaking orbit, but we managed to miss the entire Covenant army (including a freaking multi-kilometer long capital ship!) that was sneaking up on our most valuable fireteam!).

And Palmer, dear, sweet, moronic Commander Sarah Palmer. An individual I am clearly supposed to believe is the most badass female in the entire remaining UNSC, despite her willingness to abandon her post and turn off her comm. at the drop of a hat so she can go torment Halsey without telling her subordinates what she's up to, thus leaving them scrambling to try and find her when things go to hell, her strange love for waltzing around in enemy controlled territory without her helmet, thereby denying herself the protection of her shields, motion tracker, NBC and vacuum hardening, and HUD, and her moral cowardice. (Ordered by a commanding officer to arrest the living legend of a Spartan who's fully armored and more than capable of reenacting the case of Hulk v. Loki against her, nope, not happening. Commanding Officer begs her to not assassinate an aging woman completely incapable of mounting any sort of resistance or defense against her? "Orders are orders!") To say nothing of her spectacular incompetence during that little op (I'm going to rush into the most heavily defended outpost on Requiem, of which we more or less have no intelligence and I'm outnumbered bugger-all to one, armed only with two pistols and a knife, completely forsaking heavy weapons, grenades, backup, armor mods, or the like, because I'm super-special-awesome!) directly resulting in not only botching said operation in truly spectacular form, but also giving the UNSC's foremost Forerunner tech expert literally nowhere to go except into the arms of Humanity's most dangerous enemy and doing the one thing that could ever possibly cause a fanatically loyal (and _extremely dangerous)_ combat force like the remaining Spartan-II's to go rogue.

As an additional note, on the extreme off chance that any 343i employees happen to read this, a little word of advice: if you, as professional writers, in order to make one of your characters appear like a complete badass, have to make the enemy forget about key, _integrated defensive technologies that they have been established to have access to from their very first appearance and are a core essence of their combat protocols_ (Palmer one-shotting a fresh-to-the-fight Knight that apparently forgot it had energy shields) you have failed! Return to the drawing board and start anew! Sorry… it's just that there are few things that irk me more than someone attempting to portray a character as this hyper-competent super-awesome badass when the sad reality is that he or she shouldn't be in charge of protecting anything more important than the UNSC's strategic ballpoint pen stockpile.

Again… I apologize for all of this ranting… I just need to vent I suppose. Halo has long been one of my favorite science fiction franchises, and when my friends and I first dreamed up Finishing the Fight's scenario, many years ago on a night where we were all on a caffeine buzz and listening to over-the-top orchestral music, I still had that sense of awe and wonder. Writing this story, and fixing it up and posting it over here has been one of the greatest joys of my life, and I hope one of the critical steps towards one day being a published author myself (it being the first story I've written that doesn't make me look back at it and think "dear god, I sucked back then."). But… well… there are few better ways to suck that joy out of a person than to watch more or less helplessly as that franchise is rammed into the dirt when the writers, programmers, and the like become concerned with money to the expense of everything else, and quality control is allowed to more or less be abandoned in favor of turning out some cheap, un-innovative crap that millions will buy simply because it has the "Halo" ™ logo slapped on it.

I'll still continue to post this story, still try and proofread and correct it… and if I ever get the time, I will try and get the sequel (and even a little ten or so chapter Fall of Reach sidestory I've been planning) off the ground but I'm not sure if it'll be the same anymore.

Thank you for bearing with me while I got that off my chest, and to all of you who have kept following this story through all its ups and downs and putting up with the drama of my personal life, thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.


	38. Chapter 37: Now Reap The Whirwind!

**Chapter Thirty Seven: … Now Reap the Whirlwind!  
**

* * *

Helm clutched at the grip of his flaming sword as he stared down into his scrying device. The pieces were set, the board prepared. Now was the time, and this the hour.

He had waited thousands of years for this moment. Now he would strike, now his people would strike.

Within the depths of the scrying device, he could see the gathering forces of mortals and Gods alike. In the underground realm of the Dwarves, the forces for operations Overlord and Double Thunder were massing, and preparing to move out. Standing in the thick of it was the Master Chief and his A.I., the sight of his old suit of armor giving the troops hope and inflaming their courage to even greater heights.

Within the tree covered realms of the Elves, that ancient race marshaled its forces. Mage and blademaster stood side by side, while overhead, the forces of Bahamut and some of Correllon's angels would provide protection from overhead assaults.

Along the Sword Coast, from Ten Towns to Neverwinter, to the desert sands of Calimport, Men rallied. Old differences were put aside, blood feuds ended, and truces declared in preparation for the coming demonic assault.

In the dark realms of the Underdark, the Drow were awaiting the arrival of the last of their forces before they marched. Prayers to Lolth were being chanted, prayers asking the Spider Goddess for victory and glory in the coming battles. Adamantine blades were being sharpened and enchanted, and all preparations for a second war with the surface were under way.

The God of Guardians looked up, his burning eyes settling on Moradin. The Dwarven God was also arrayed for battle, his mighty hammer clutched in one hand, and his arming sword strapped to his back.

"It's time, my old friend," Helm said, grasping his sword tighter.

Moradin grinned behind his beard. "Good, I've been waiting for this for a long time."

In the blink of an eye, they were gone.

* * *

Commander Keyes looked out among the gathered forces before her, and nodded her head slightly. Within just a few minutes, they would be moving out and heading into the battle that would decide the fate of this world. Their relatively small strike team would be tasked with crippling the Drow, but equally important were those who would hold down the fort up here. She hoped that everyone was up to the task. Morale had been high so far, due to their smashing victory over the first Dark Elf army, but a lot could change when there were a mass of Abyss spawned demons charging towards you.

Still, all preparations were in place, and all their defenses set. She had done everything she could, and that was what mattered.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Orna Fulsamee. How strange the times were to be allied with one who had for so long fought against her and Humanity itself. Still, during their time here, the Elite had proven himself to be as stalwart an ally as they could have asked for. The Commander came to attention and saluted the Ascetic, and to her surprise, he noticed her gesture, and returned it with one of his own.

The Sangheili soldier then went to seeing to his own final preparations. Probably a good thing, since his job in the strike force was probably going to be the diciest.

However, as the UNSC Commander turned back to her own duties, she was approached by Sergeant Johnson. The ODST saluted her and she nodded towards him.

"With your permission ma'am, I would like to make a bit of a speech towards the troops, seeing as how they're all gathered up at the moment."

The Sergeant Major referred to more than just the assembled strike teams. The commanders of the Lords' Alliance had decided that it would be best for their troops to be 'linked up' with each other via UNSC communications gear, and most of the platoons had been issued radios. Johnson would be addressing most of the soldiers up and down the Sword Coast, from Ten Towns to Waterdeep to Amn.

Keyes contemplated it for a moment, before nodding her head again. "I'll allow it, but be careful, Sergeant. I don't need you frightening them."

"I wouldn't dream of it, ma'am," he said with another salute.

Then the Helljumper took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, before walking over towards one of the computers that had been brought from the _Dawn_. Its signal was powerful enough to reach out to all of the communication radios across the Sword Coast. He activated the command channel, and the radios crackled to life. The ODST's HUD clock told him that the local time along most of the coast was around nine in the morning.

"Hello everyone." He started off. "I'm Sergeant Johnson. I know that these are strange and dangerous times for you. And before the day is done, you will likely find yourself in the largest battle in the history of Torril. Against Demons, no less." He paused for a second, and then continued. "Look to the people around you. They may be Human, Elf, Dwarf, man or woman, but they are your brothers and sisters. When the time comes, remember that. Our enemies will be legion, but they fight as individuals, and so each of them fights alone. They are not an army, they are a mob. A badassed mob, maybe," he threw a small chuckle into his words, though he quickly became serious again, "but a mob is just a wave, and an army a bulwark, a cliff, a rock. It has cohesion, it is solid. Do your work with confidence, support your fellow soldiers, and the wave _will_ break upon _you_."

He paused, and let it sink in. The eyes of the soldiers present were falling upon him as he continued to deliver his speech.

"In my time here, I have come to respect and _honor_ all of you I've fought alongside of. As such, I won't bullshit you. Some of you will die in the coming battle. But remember why you fight, and for what cause you will make that sacrifice." He took a breath, swallowing deeply. Behind his helmet, he saw brief flashes of former comrades. Jenkins, Besenti, Captain Keyes, Locklear. "You fight so your children may live and grow old, and so that their children may live in a time when the horrors of the Underdark and their fiendish allies are nothing more than bad memories. You fight so they will only know of Demonic invasions and surface raids from scary bedtime stories, not experience."

"You will meet the enemy, and you will _be_ a rock, and drive them back, so that your children, and your children's children can look back upon this day with pride. So that they can see that this was the day, this was the hour, when petty divides and strifes died, and all the peoples and nations of this world united together. When they became a rock upon which the future was built."

He paused, stood a bit straighter, and took a deep breath.

"One last thing to remember, it's all right to be scared. Although we are a rock we face horrors untold. I'll leave you with a few words from men who have gone before. 'Success is never final. Failure is never fatal. It is courage that counts. And courage is doing what you're afraid to do. There can be no courage unless you're scared.' Now let's go out there and _be that rock!"_

As the speech came to an end, the reactions varied. Some of the men and women who heard it nodded stoically. Some of them cheered. Some of them stood a little taller, gripped their weapons just a little easier. Some of them had a fire in their eyes, and still others managed to smile.

Back within the depths of Mithril Hall, the soldiers in the room with Johnson chatted amongst themselves, using both the speech and their own pep talks to get their adrenaline up and flowing. According to the plan, it would be mere minutes before Helm and Moradin spearheaded their assaults into Lolth's realm. Once they were there, the eyes of the Spider Goddess would be taken away from her capital city to deal with the invasion of her realm.

Once they had gotten her attention, Cortana and the Master Chief would receive a signal, and launch their assault. At the same time, Overlord and Double Thunder would be initiated. The idea was to hit hard, fast, and on multiple fronts, hopefully overwhelming their enemies, who lacked the ability to coordinate as they could. This would give them the initiative, force the Demons and the Drow onto the defensive, and force them to constantly be trying to adapt to the moves of the Overlord teams, rather than the other way around.

While it wouldn't guarantee that everything would run smoothly, it gave them the best shot of getting all their objectives accomplished without getting wiped out.

All they had to do was wait.

* * *

The Balor, Errtu, turned his back on the Baenre torturers for a few moments, feeling a prickling in his mind that indicated his lord wanted to speak with him. He let his consciousness flow out and around, drifting through the Planes until he homed in on the psychic call. The image of Demogorgon filled his mind, and he bowed before his master.

"It is time," the Demon Prince's two heads muttered at the same time, the voice one that would drive the most courageous of men into mindless terror. "Prepare your troops. My armies march upon the surface now!"

Errtu said nothing, but merely bowed once again. He withdrew back to the Prime, and blinked a few times as he refocused his vision. His eyes drifted down to his prize. Neeshka was lying down in front of them, her flesh scarred and burnt from the actions of both himself and the Baenre torturers. Still, despite the bones that had been broken, the flesh that had been flayed, and the spells cast upon her, she remained stubbornly defiant, staring up at them with a look that would have struck them all dead if such a feat had been within her power.

Errtu was tempted to smile. This was turning out to be more enjoyable than he had imagined. Too often, a victim broke too quickly, ruining all the fun of such activities. It was the final goal of shattering the individual that was just as enjoyable as the act itself.

He shook himself out of his thoughts and back to reality, before turning to one of the Baenre soldiers who was present, and wrapping his wings around himself.

"Demogorgon's troops march upon the surface. Go, and tell your Matron that we must move soon, regardless of how ready her army is," he commanded the Dark Elf, gesturing towards the Baenre throne room with his right hand.

The woman nodded her head, and promptly bolted. Errtu turned his attention back to the Tiefling before him, and a wicked smile came to his face again.

"Stand aside," he told the Drow. "I believe it is time that I had another turn with this impudent half-breed."

Neeshka said nothing, but just glared at him again. The Balor almost admired the spirit within the girl, and had to hold back a chuckle as he prepared to set to work. Lightning started to crackle along his talons, and with a gesture, he unleashed it.

* * *

It happened almost simultaneously. Helm and Moradin entered the Demonweb pits, intent on their mission, and Demogrogon's forces ripped open massive portals to the Prime, rushing out to begin their conquest. In nearly every major city in Faerun, the forces of the Abyss spilled over into the mortal world, and the forces of Men, Elves, Dwarves, and others rallied to begin pushing them back.

The signal from the God of Guardians and support calls from the Surface armies came in within seconds of one another. The Master Chief turned to watch Commander Keyes. They had hoped to be under way before this happened. It seemed that things were already not going according to the plan.

The UNSC Commander narrowed her eyes. There were two possible choices before her at the moment. The first was to go ahead with the plan, and hope that the surface armies of Faerun could hold out against the onslaught that was about to get thrown at them. The second was to call off the attack and reinforce Mithril Hall and as many other cities as possible.

With the talent of an officer with more than twenty years of command service under her belt, she reached her decision in the blink of an eye.

"Proceed with the attack. We have to cut the heart out of this invasion, and we have to do it now."

Everyone nodded, and the Master Chief opened up a Slip-Space portal. There was the roar of a maelstrom for a few seconds, and then he was gone. With that done, all that was left was for the mages to cast their spells and teleport them into the heart of Menzoberranzan.

There was the sensation of suddenly being nowhere, floating, drifting through the ethers. Then she felt a pull near her stomach, and she was suddenly back on solid ground. The infrared sensors of her combat gear kicked in instantly, showing her the layout of the city of Menzoberranzan.

Jarlaxle's magi had done their jobs splendidly, and command group Omaha was in its precise ingress zone. They were on top of a four story building in the main bazaar of the city. Aside from the popping noises of the displaced air, there had been no sound to alert the enemy of their arrival, and the thermal masking systems of their armor suits would make it harder to see the members of the group. They were further aided by the fact that most of the city's civilian population was asleep right now, and the bazaar virtually deserted. Nonetheless, Keyes intended for the Drow to have to pay dearly if they wanted to take this place from her.

No verbal commands or signals were needed. The troops set about their tasks instantly. The mages that were with them began to quietly raise teleportation wards, while the Neo-Covenant troops set up defensive hard points such as HPMG and plasma cannon positions, while others threw down portable energy barriers and prepared to raise them. Others toss anti-infantry mines along the sides and tops of the buildings near their positions, or set up the 120mm and plasma mortars that would deliver long range death where it was needed… and drop the Cold Silence chemical rounds right into the heart of the enemy.

The other teams were radioing in, and Keyes knew that they had only seconds before Hard Contact was initiated with the Underdark forces. They had to hurry, and get those chemical rounds in the air.

"Mortars assembled," one of the Elite's hissed over Omaha's private channel.

Keyes activated her UNSC neural lace, and with a thought, sent the final activation codes to the chemical rounds. The microdetonators in the rounds went off, and the novachok agents began to mix. They were now armed, and ready to deliver their lethal payloads. The command group's UAV's had been launched as soon as they had set up their preliminary defense systems, and were already zeroing in on the top priority targets.

"Initiate." Keyes said.

The chemical rounds were swiftly loaded, and the EM systems kicked in. A high pitched 'fwoomph' sound filled the air as the rounds shot out of their tubes and went flying into the distance. Keyes' HUD tracked the rounds as their arched through the air at nearly three times the speed of sound. The initial destination of the devices was Tier Breche, the Drow Academies. Right now, they were filled with tens of thousands of crack Dark Elven troops awaiting the order to move.

Zooming in, Keyes noted that there was quite a bit of activity going on in the camps. This confirmed her fear that the Drow themselves were gearing up to move. Their element of surprise was going to be a lot shorter than she'd hoped. Still, it would also give her a better chance to see just how badly the enemy would react to exposure to TH-138.

The mortar rounds reached their destination even as the next rounds were being fired out. Five hundred meters off the ground, the rounds blew open, and the small tubes of the now fully mixed Cold Silence shot out in different directions. A few moments later, those too detonated. The heat and pressure of the explosion quickly aerosolized the liquid. The Drow reacted almost instantly to the sounds; some of the Dark Elves went for their weapons, others seemed to be preparing spells.

Their enemy was smart, they knew that something was up. But they were up against a foe they could not fight against. A poison so potent that a drop smaller than the head of a pin could kill hundreds. It started within moments.

All across the city, where the chemical rounds exploded, Dark Elves, Druegar, Kobolds, Goblins, Orcs, even some of the lower Demons began to twitch and drop to the ground, their eyes bulging and their forms convulsing as they lost control of their bodies and began to choke. Others, exposed to more concentrated doses of TH-138, began to experience the full symptoms that Sergeant Johnson had described, and were soon lying in pools of their own body fluids and other gore.

There were no cries. No screams of pain or anguish, or even terror. There was only silence from the dead and dying, and frantic shouts of alarm from the ones who survived the attack and those who had the luck to be wearing magical items with potent enough warding against poisons to shield them. Among those survivors, confusion ran rampant as they tried to figure out what was suddenly causing their allies to drop dead.

The more powerful Clerics immediately began to try and commune with Lolth, but little did they realize that their dark Goddess' attention was otherwise occupied.

* * *

Helm narrowed his gaze as he stared into the depths of the Demonweb. The plane of reality in which Lolth built her home was a world unto itself, spiraling inward like the web of a funnel spider. In the distance he could see the massive, eight legged fortress that served as her home. Larger than a city, it moved about the hellish webs, keeping Lolth's position mobile and difficult to track. Helm turned to look at Moradin. The Dwarven God was smiling even more fiercely now that he was actually here. Behind them was a small army of Dwarven heroes from times past, and the avatars of the other Gods and Goddesses of the Dwarven pantheon.

"Your time is ending, Spider Queen," the God of Guardians muttered softly, before raising his flaming sword behind him high into the air and letting out a battle cry.

It took but a few moments for them to cross the distance between their current position and the fortress. Alarms were sounded in earnest as soon as they were spotted, but there was only so much that could be done. Helm led the charge, shoulder to the front and his sword cocked back behind him.

A pair of Dark Elven champions stood on one of the parapets of the mobile fortress, backed up by a pair of Yochols. The two Drow were bowled aside like they were nothing more than ninepins as the God smashed into them, and with a mere gaze, he burned the wicked handmaidens from his sight.

They were but drones, insects. He sought the queen. The sooner he found Lolth and engaged her in battle, then the larger the window of opportunity that the mortals fighting in the Underdark and the Surface would have to coordinate their defenses and assaults without having to worry about the Dark Goddess figuring out what was up or being able to grant major boons and powers to her followers.

Moradin was at his side again, his ages old comrade prepared to intercept major resistance and allow for Helm to pass, two certain resistances in particular, which both Gods knew Lolth would hurl at them if it meant slowing them down for even a minute. Meanwhile, the other Dwarven forces would keep Lolth's minions occupied and unable to assist.

They might have lacked the power to directly challenge a deity, but Helm had long learned the lesson of never leaving anything to chance. One never knew when a particularly audacious minion, mortal champion, or the like would manage to enter the battle, and they had a _talent _for disruption. He let his mind extend outwards for a moment or two, and locked on to the largest source of arcane power. He extended his will further, and for a moment, he actually brushed minds with the insane Goddess.

He felt panic, surprise, and shock running through his mind for a second, but he knew better than to hope that those were genuine emotions. Even if they were, Lolth would doubtless have a plan if her home were ever to be invaded, and he would have to act quickly to prevent her from setting it into motion.

He knew where she was now, though, and he drew on his power. A lightning bolt leapt from his hand and obliterated the ceiling above his head. Vaporized metal and rock filled the air, but it did not bother the deity, nor did the vast amounts of ambient heat that would have roasted the flesh from any normal being. Instead he leaped straight up, the air rushing past his ears and roaring in his mind, until he reached an area near the top of the fortress. A miles long hallway extended before him, and at the end of it, he could see Lolth's two primary lackeys.

Vhaeraun and Selvetarm both stood in front of a door, readying sword and spell to meet the intruders that would harm their mistress. Helm looked over to Moradin. The Dwarven God said nothing, merely thumped the head of his warhammer against the palm of his hand. As one they broke towards the two lesser deities. Helm could both see and sense the fear growing in the bellies of the two Gods as they realized the awful truth, realized just how committed their foes were to this battle.

Traditionally, when conducting raids on other deities realms, the tactic was to send Avatars. That way the God or Goddess would remain safe in his or her home plane, and be able to watch and gather information without fear of harm. That was not so in this case. Vhaeraun and Selvetarm, and Lolth herself, would not face Avatars. They would face the full fury of two of the most powerful beings to ever walk the Planes of the multiverse.

To their credit, the two lesser Gods stood their ground and braced themselves for the coming fight. They were caught off guard when Moradin suddenly leapt forward and tackled the two of them, before blowing them down through the floors of the fortress, deeper into its bowels.

"For all the Dwarves dead at your mistress's hands!" he screamed, jumping down after them.

Now none stood to bar the way. Helm was left alone with his foe. With but a thought, he sent the mighty citadel doors crashing inwards and walked over the hole in the ground. Within the chamber was a large throne room, and atop a chair of black marble, Lolth sat. Her crimson eyes shone hatefully at the armored God, and she clutched at a spear that was wickedly barbed and pulsing with evil magic. She wore a type of light chain armor, with a few plates here and there to protect the more vital areas. It looked very much like what her typical soldier wore, Helm thought.

Despite it all she tried to look composed, but he could see a glint in her eye, and a slight quiver in her arms. Her plans had likely not included a true assault by an actual God, let alone two, and she was having to try and reconfigure her defensive plans. Wards and spells that would obliterate an Avatar could be shrugged off by the genuine article.

"I thought you might come. But I never imagined you to be so foolish as to actually show your physical form on my domain," Lolth hissed, rising from her throne and brandishing the spear. "Here I am all powerful, and I will destroy you without even exerting myself." she started to cackle insanely as she started forward, descending the stairs of her throne. "Your arrogance has doomed you, Helm."

"You keep boasting and chanting that this is my doom, yet I do not see you taking action." He smirked behind his helmet. Lolth's psychological armor had many chinks in it, if one but knew the right words to speak. "You hesitate, and stall for time," he raised his sword, which bore the name of Azure-Wrath, and let its blue light bathe the chamber in its glow. "I can sense your fear, Queen of Spiders. You fear me even within the realm of your own domain, as a child fears the shadows in its closet, or underneath its bed."

"You _dare!_" Lolth screeched. In the blink of an eye, she had jumped across the distance that had separated them, her spear thrust downward to impale the God of Guardians.

Another blink. The spear connected with empty air and smashed into the floor of the throne room. The Demonweb Fortress shook at the impact, and the stone and metal underneath shattered, leaving a large hole in the floor. Lolth twisted around, frantically searching for her adversary, for her tormentor. She found him standing at the top of the stairs leading up to her throne.

"You dare to insult me in my own hall?" she screamed at him, preparing for another attack. "I will grind your bones to dust! I will pluck out your eyes and sow your mouth shut, before ripping your head off and mounting it like a trophy!" she gestured, and in front of her a portal opened up, spewing meteors out of it and sending the fiery rocks streaking towards Helm. As before, he vanished right before impact, and all the Spider Queen succeeded in doing was destroying her throne.

"Many have made such boasts to me before," he said, and she whirled to see him staring down at her from the ceiling, his armored boots anchored to it as he calmly walked above her head. "None have ever been able to put their words into actions. And those boasts were made by creatures far deadlier and more dangerous than a frail, insane Goddess with a persecution complex."

Lolth screamed again and hurled her spear like a thunderbolt. It shattered the entire roof of the throne room, its momentum carrying it up and destroying level after level. Stone and metal shrieked and tumbled off of the mobile fortress, forcing those battling down below on the outer portions of it to frantically dodge and seek cover, lest they be crushed by the mountains of falling debris.

For the third time, Lolth realized to her increasing frustration, she had failed to hit her target. Helm was goading her, she knew it, but she was helpless to stop it.

Within the protected recesses of his mind, as he peeked down through the hole his opponent had made in the roof, Helm smiled to himself, and teasingly waved down at his foe. This elicited another shriek of outrage and wounded pride. Helm had long studied Lolth, and knew exactly what to say and what to do to keep her rage growing until it was past the point where she could control it. An opponent half insane with rage would fight sloppily, and never pause to wonder why he or she might be fighting their opponent.

Lolth teleported up to him in an instant, her spear back in her hands as she tried to impale the other deity through his back. With impossible speed, Helm blurred out of the way, leaped over the stadium sized hole that the goddess had made, and laughed at her again. She teleported again, appearing in front of him and thrusting wildly.

"I am Lolth!" she roared. "There are none more dangerous! None more powerful! None more cunning!" She stabbed and twirled the spear around, seeking every possible opportunity or avenue of attack, all the while throwing out spells of hellfire, lightning, and psionic attacks that could have felled whole armies.

Helm dodged, parried, or deflected every attack she threw, raising his wards when necessary to thwart her arcane attacks. At last, the moment presented itself. Lolth overextended herself, and he struck. He brought Azure-Wrath down on her spear, cutting deep into its metal handle before catching the weapon with his crossguard and forcing it down. Before Lolth could react, he drove his armored boot into her shin and then smashed his fist into the insane Goddess' face with enough power to catapult her through the air towards the far end of the Demonweb Fortress. While she was still airborne, lightning and raw, arcane power leaped from his hands and streaked towards her. The Goddess screamed as the attacks rushed over her body, and then found herself paralyzed by a telekinetic grip. With a thought, Helm threw her down. Again, her fortress shuddered as she smashed through layer after layer of its construction.

At last, he released her, and prepared for her next attack. For all the fury he had shown, he had done little more than wound her pride and bruise her ego. Lolth would come again and again.

He suddenly spun around, bringing his flaming sword down from an angle. Lolth was there again, her spear twisting and mutating until it was a bastard sword like his own. The two blades met in a shower of fire as Azure-Wrath's blue flames pulsed and grew in fury, as if it were feeding on of the darkness and rage that Lolth was giving off.

"I will rend you, break you upon my tortures! You will scream for me to end it before I am through with you!" the Dark Elf cried out.

Helms response was a downward cut at his foe's legs, followed by an upward slash at her body. Lolth managed to parry both of the strikes, before rearing back and making a horizontal slash towards Helm's neck. The God of Guardians caught the attack on the flat of his sword, slid the blade down to where they were locked at the hilt, and stepped in close to Lolth. His boot descended onto her foot, smashing so hard against it that the roof of the fortress cracked, sending both of their legs down into a hole until it was even with their calves. As the Goddess gasped in pain, he smashed his helmeted head against her bare one, before following it up with a massive fireball that blew her away from him again, while filling the air with a roar and a concussion that would have shattered the mightiest mountain along the Spine of the World.

As before, though, Helm knew that his opponent was not even suffering the equivalent of a flesh wound yet.

No mortal could have reacted fast enough to evade Lolth's retaliation as a burst of fire erupted from underneath Helm, streaking up towards the sky. Then she was upon him with a fury of cuts, stabs, and chops. Helm worked his weapon back and forth, deflecting everything while slowly retreating and giving ground.

"Strange," he suddenly spoke as he simultaneously parried a sword stroke and deflected a burst of spellfire, "for being so all powerful, and for all your threats to vanquish me, I still seem to be here."

A shriek of indignant rage met his musings, and his opponent lunged forward, her sword cocked back above her head. The God of Guardians leaped backwards out of the way of the chop, which continued down until it shattered another section of the fortress' roof. Behind his helmet, he again smiled.

Everything was going as he'd hoped.

* * *

Commander Keyes looked at the HUD of her helmet, pulling up a map of the city and highlighting the troops under her command. The UAVs that had been sent up were monitoring the different elements perfectly, and providing her with a real time picture of what was going on.

Most of her attention right now was on Sword, as they were the largest element force, launching a direct assault upon the very heart of their foe: House Baenre. So far, all seemed to be going well. But that could change in an instant.

At the same time, Gold team was making their assault on the academies. The word was out now, that the city was under assault. Keyes thought it best to think of it as being akin to kicking a large hornets' nest. While scores of thousands were already dead thanks to the chemical alpha strike that Overlord's forces has unleashed, there were many more who were either protected against such attacks, or whose biology was so radically different that the poison had no effect upon them.

Now they swarmed around the targets, rightly guessing what the enemy was up to, and what they were trying to do.

Support calls were coming in, primarily from Gold, as Sword had the benefit of having its own heavy firepower along for the ride. Juno and Utah were small strike teams, and not in a position to call on support at all. It was those that Keyes worried about the most, and why Sword was under orders to draw as much fire and attention to themselves as possible.

The UNSC commander strongly suspected that her opponents would be smart enough to guess that they were a diversionary attack, and that the real threat was elsewhere. House Baenre would not have survived more than six thousand years in an environment like this unless they were good at such things. However, the ace up Keyes' sleeve was that an assault force as large as Sword, storming the primary gate and laying waste to everything in sight, was not something that could be ignored, and even if they knew it was not the true threat, they would have to commit large amounts of their resources in order to try and contain it. Every Drow, Demon, or slave troop that was sent to try and stall Sword was one less set of eyes searching for Juno or Utah.

The Commander sent a coded message off to both teams, the lights on her HUD winking a silent inquiry for a status report. She got four short winks and two longs ones back, and the lights were blue. So far so good, no enemy encounters, and no detection. At the same time, there was the roar of a plasma mortar as Gold called in for more support and three heavy plasma rounds were sent arcing over the city, winking blue on the infrared spectrum. Keyes was once more astounded by how hauntingly beautiful they looked when they were suspended in mid-air, so much like a star.

Then they reached the buildings that they had been targeting, and utterly obliterated them, reminding her again of what their true purpose was.

The Commander kept looking around her position as she monitored the status of the element teams, concern growing in her chest. The plasma mortars were highly visible, blinding to the Dark Elves who could scarcely stand the light of a candle, let alone the fury of a weapon which burned like a miniature sun. Why hadn't they attempted to assault this position? There should have been troops swarming to try and take her command post, especially once they realized all the heavy firepower Omaha was raining down on their heads. She was too wise to believe that they had just opted to ignore her, and their luck wasn't good enough to suspect that the Cold Silence had killed enough of the untold thousands in this city that no one was around to mount a counter-assault.

"Stay alert, I think they're up to something," she announced to her team.

Quiet affirmatives met her command, and the Neo-Covenant troops remained vigilant. At the same time, she also checked in with Double Thunder. So far, resistance had been minimal to them, and most of the children of the appropriate age had been safely subdued and teleported away to a holding area of the _Forward Unto Dawn_. However, resistance was likely to mount as more and more of Menzoberranzan's civilian population awoke to the realization that war had just found its way to their doorstep.

For the moment, though, there was nothing more that she could do. She had to wait for the enemy to make the next move. Her troops were forcing the enemy onto the defensive, now she had to see how they would react. As the old navy saying went, she had on her tin hat. Now all there was to do was wait.

* * *

From within the dungeons of House Baenre, Neeshka felt a gentle rumbling. Panting, trying to draw enough air into her lungs to keep herself conscious. She stared up out of the eye that wasn't swollen shut, staring at Errtu. The mighty Balor seemed to be having the time of his life, laughing while he'd shocked her, beat her, and tore into her mind with his magic. He kept ripping into her psyche, trying to find out what she knew about the offworlders, what he could use against them.

The thought of her friends getting hurt because of the information she had in her head kept her strong. She couldn't fail them. The consequences could be devastating if Errtu, and by extension, Demogorgon, learned the true extent of what the UNSC were capable of. They might turn their attention from the Blood War, try to find their homeworlds, and invade them. She wasn't certain how well Humanity could handle that, especially given how badly they had suffered in their war with the Covenant.

"You are strong, Tiefling," she heard Errtu growl, and she looked back up at him, "you have your grandfather's strength." He reached out and yanked her up off of the floor with a single hand choking her in his grip. She didn't struggle. There was no way to break his grip, and it would only exhaust her oxygen supply. She glared balefully at him.

He chuckled in return. "But that will make the moment when you finally crack all the sweeter. I have never failed when it comes to extracting information from mortals." He leaned in close, and she could smell his hellish breath. She didn't flinch, just kept glaring.

The rumbling came again, stronger this time, and there was the sound of someone running down the stairs. Errtu dropped her, and in her weakened state, Neeshka crashed to the stone floor, she looked over to see one of Matron Triel's elite guard rushing in.

"We are under attack!" the woman exclaimed, breathing deeply, as if she'd been running for some time. "There are enemies all throughout the city, and they assault the very gates of the House!"

"What?" Errtu screamed, his wings spreading out as he roared and closed in on the small Elf. "Who? In how many numbers?"

"The strange allies the Dwarves had at the battle of the Hall. There are hundreds of them at least. Matron Triel has contacted the other Matrons, but they've attacked us with some kind of magic, a spell we've never seen before. Half the city's armed forces are already dead!"

Neeshka could feel the magic in the air, and knew that Errtu must have been using every ounce of self-restraint that he had not to start blasting things.

"What of the ones at the gate?" Another rumble filled the room.

"The outer gate has already fallen, and they've pressed up through the causeway. The second gate was under assault as I was sent to warn you. It may already have fallen." The Drow responded. "There are hundreds in that group alone."

"Too many for it to be the true assault," Errtu growled. "But I will dispatch my soldiers to slow them down. Summon your allies, have them come in from behind. We will take these invaders, and beat them as a hammer smashes an anvil."

"As you command, milord," the guard said bowing, and then dashing off. Errtu seemed to cast a small spell, of what kind Neeshka couldn't tell. "Then he turned to Vendes Baenre, and glowered at the torture master. "Stay here, watch her, try to get anything you can out of her."

"My pleasure, mighty one," Vendes said with a bow and a smirk, her hand drifting to a wickedly serrated knife that she had on her hip.

With that, the mighty demon departed, storming up the stairs. However, even as Vendes closed on her, and pulled her knife out, Neeshka managed a smile. They had come. Her friends and allies had brought the fight to the enemy. She knew better than to hope that she would get out of this alive, but the Tiefling started to laugh despite herself. Her 'interrogator' paused for a moment as the Tiefling's body shook with laughter.

"What is so funny?" the woman growled, standing over her victim.

"You're dead," Neeshka managed to whisper, not caring how much her broken ribs hurt when she laughed. "You just don't realize it yet. They're coming. They'll slaughter your troops, banish your demons, and when they're done, the only thing left of your city will be a smoldering wreck." She paused for a moment to catch her breath, coughing up a little bit of blood as she did so. "Menzoberranzan will become nothing but a curse to your people, a name synonymous with death, despair, and ruin."

There was something in the one eye of the Tiefling that was staring at her, something that looked almost crazed. For a brief moment, Vendes was actually unnerved. She had heard the stories of Mithril Hall, of how many people had died there to these strange beings, to their thunder-weapons and their lightning-staffs. Then she shook her head. That was then, before they had Demogorgon on their side. With the Demon Prince as their ally, no force in all the universe could defeat them.

Vendes felt hate, hate for the weakness she had experienced, if only for a moment, for the _doubt_ that the Tiefling had made her feel. The Drow torture master quickly focused that hate on the half-breed, and with a snarl, plunged the knife into her shoulder and twisted it.

Neeshka bit back the scream that tried to escape her throat, and as she had with Errtu, glared at her captor and tormentor. All the while, the smile never left her face.


End file.
